Shades of Grey
by Ocianne
Summary: Hakuba Saguru, British detective. Everyone believes Kid to be the showman, but what secrets might lie behind Saguru's over-the-top debut and subsequent conspicuous absences? Point of view, DCMK canon with a twist.
1. Silver

Disclaimer: Gosho's characters belong to Gosho. Original characters do not. Due to Saguru's perspective, British spelling is generally maintained. Oh, and the following is all Vathara's fault.

Welcome to the crackbunny that would not die: an exercise in style, perspective, and story. Enjoy.

* * *

Shades of Grey: Silver

* * *

_Monday, 23 February. 20:49:13._

Hand on the pocket watch, feel the open-face time tick by, seconds and minutes and hours pressing into fingertips that know the sharp arrowhands by heart.

Let the measured pace calm his heart as he walks down the corridor, pauses in the doorway to the main exhibit. This is show time—finding out if he can pass muster, or witness everything he's working for collapse like a house of cards.

"All right, let's synchronise our watches!" That voice is easily recognisable, Nakamori having dominated the interviews related to Kid's return, seven months worth of media to memorise. "The time is, um…"

There will be no better opportunity to make an entrance tonight. Pull out the watch to make the appearance just right and step inside, shoes silent on marble, white and white and white. "23rd of February, 20:51 and 16.05 seconds exactly."

It's not. Or at least, the fractions of a second are simply a guess. A century-old pocket watch will never delineate time with such precision, but no one is going to challenge that level of exactitude because there's nothing to compare it against.

Say it anyway, because if he speaking the time aloud is a matter of routine, he might as well be outrageous about it. Time is his constant, ten thousand disconnected moments held together by universal thread.

_Pulse_.

Behind him, someone—likely Nakamori—has turned in a squeak of shoes, attention arrested by the purposefully British lilt.

Timing is everything. "And for your information—" snap the case closed "—my watch deviates only .001 seconds in a year." Precision is a close second to timing; without it, the world blurs into half-truths.

"You—You're that detective from London!" Nakamori, definitely, voice a deep-throated growl. He suspects he'll like the man, both as an officer of the law and as a man who won't suffer fools gladly.

Pause a breath… and then turn to face Kid's Task Force with a dazzling Westerner's smile.

"Hakuba Saguru, at your service."

_Pulse._

The huddle of men has turned as one to look at him. Let them watch the foreign-broad smile, watch the deerstalker coat and hat, brim pulled low—if they're distracted by the costume, they aren't looking at his eyes. His reputation can handle eccentric; that's only a few shades off normal, and it's going to crop up whether he actively encourages it or not.

"Scram, this is no place for amateurs!" Even anticipated, Nakamori's casual dismissal makes him straighten unconsciously, evidence of competence lining up in his thoughts in a logical progression. Before he can speak, pressure covers his shoulders from behind, arrival unanticipated in the focus on Nakamori and his men before him.

Don't twitch; don't react. _Pulse_.

Father's hand, arm, body, all etched as a rippling flash of white on black and shades of grey. He insisted on coming along tonight, to smooth the way.

"Oh, Nakamori-kun, don't be so stiff!" Father's voice, customarily jovial, as the arm presses uncomfortably against him.

Don't bristle.

Father means well, really, just is overprotective, forgetting that he came to Japan to spread his wings, such as they are. Chasing a criminal who is half pacifist, half stage-performer, all genius, is perfect. Provided he can win the Task Force's acceptance.

Pressure on his shoulders eases as father moves and appeals to Nakamori's pride: an experienced officer teaching an amateur the harsh reality of law enforcement that exists behind the media's false glamour. Apparently Eric inherited the fine art of manipulation from father and mother both, because father turns Nakamori's irritation into outright enthusiasm before there's an opportunity to retake control of the exchange.

"If you have any questions, boy, just let me know!" Nakamori's hand claps his shoulder, intended as a friendly gesture.

Don't flinch.

Loose a barrage of questions instead, none of which Nakamori can really be expected to know, much as they might wish otherwise. The only solid facts about Kid are the treasures he's stolen and his tricks of the trade. Even his gender is assumed from his white-suited appearance at heists, but that's hardly a guarantee given that the man has believably disguised as Nakamori's own daughter.

_Pulse._

Father has stepped out, mission accomplished; the officers are silent, unmoving. Nakamori seems justifiably harried, though it's impossible to tell if the man is looking through him or at him. "I… I don't know…"

"Then excuse me." Turn away, hat pulled low over his eyes again, and retrace the steps to the exit by memory. He shouldn't be bothered for the rest of the evening, provided his investigations don't draw attention to himself.

If Kid continues to escape in the future, building a criminal profile from scratch will be a good exercise.

* * *

_21:08:37._

Walk outside, trading indoor warmth for snow-sharp air, and ignore the sudden ache of hands and eyes and patches of torso. He prefers temperate weather, but a similar snowstorm in London means he's no worse off for being in Japan. With almost an hour before 22:00, Kid's predicted arrival, there is plenty of time to investigate the thief's escape plans.

_Pulse._

Find the stairs, descending white and grey to open space's featureless black, and _hold_ against them to compensate for the lack of handrail. No one will notice if the snow underfoot is crunched a little bit more than it used to be.

There's a white shape partway down the stairs that isn't the snow it's half-buried beneath, rectangular with grey kanji contours etched on top. A police notebook, lying where no police notebook should be, but the seven guards around the entrance are too busy watching the air to be paying attention to the ground.

Slide an evidence glove onto one hand, carefully kneel to pick it up by the corner and gently shake it off. He hisses under his breath at the cold burn of frozen water through the white cloth, bags the notebook and slips both bag and glove inside his coat's large inner pocket. The coat isn't _only_ for show, after all. And if Kid is going to be careless enough to drop a piece of his disguise tonight, perhaps he can also be foolish enough to have touched the misplaced object barehanded.

It's worth a try, at any rate. He'll hand it over for processing after the heist bears out his conclusions regarding Kid's disguise. Until then, there's the question of whether Kid's disguise was obtained beforehand, or if some poor sod is sitting in his knickers somewhere.

…Kid isn't cruel. Crazy, perhaps, but not cruel. The only safe place to leave an officer out here is one of the two police cars parked in the roundabout at the foot of the museum's entrance stairs. As he reaches the sidewalk he can hear both of their engines running, heaters blocking out the cold.

_Pulse. And hold, still soft as breath, against the surfaces._

One is sealed up tight: white panels and white tires and white windows that show him nothing. But the other…

Don't smirk. Pride in England is hubris in Japan.

The second car has a back window cracked open, enough to be able to find the interior behind the opaque glass.

"What the…" There _is_ a man trussed up in the back seat, and the faintest of grey lines reveals the gag of tape over his mouth. The discovery itself isn't surprising, but rather by the goose egg on the man's skull where it rests on the far seat. Hardly a serious injury, but it proves that Kid is willing to inflict small hurts to both person and dignity for the sake of his goal.

Of course, there's no record of Kid having any other options when it comes to knocking people out, either. If Kid knew about it, he would probably favor the anaesthetic gas that one of Grandfather's research labs finished the prototype testing stages for only a few months ago. Grandfather had waxed eloquent about it last week when he'd given a tour of the labs and a key card, encouraged turning his intelligence to science rather than criminology.

...Come to think of it, there's no reason why he can't see about obtaining some for a controlled experiment if Kid gets away this time. What better target than a criminal?

Belatedly, he realises that if the heat escaping through the window crack is anything to go by, the windows are hiding this man from his fellow officers by dint of being fogged. Eccentric is one thing, but staring at a fogged-up window for a good minute without bothering to wipe it off is not going to lend credence to being a normal genius high school detective. A quick check reveals that four officers are oriented in his direction, could be watching.

When you have an audience, appearances are everything.

Wipe the glass with both hands and lean in, pause three breaths. Shove throbbing-cold hands deep into warm pockets and turn away to continue investigating, absently wishing for the hundredth time for gloves that retain heat without making him feel claustrophobic.

_Pulse, out and up._

Orient to two intriguing facts. One: there is a banner display above the museum's entrance, presumably with writing he can't read, but it's tethered to the ground nearby by several thick ropes decorated by other rectangles of hanging cloth. Two: One of the closest tether ropes isn't a tether rope for the banner at all, but apparently anchors a blimp hidden behind the banner.

How very interesting.

* * *

Second half coming soon to a browser near you. Don't forget to review!

Ocianne

3/10


	2. White

Shades of Grey: White

* * *

_Monday, 23 February. 21:58:26._

One minute and thirty-four seconds until 22:00. Silence holds sway, broken only by the ticking of the wall clock on the far side of the room. With the museum's heater and so many bodies in one room, the aches have faded. He lurks in the shadows beneath the second floor observation balcony's overhang, eyes closed, own preparations long since complete.

Shoes squeak on marble, tracing Nakamori's movement every time he turns around. It's the pace of a caged tiger more than anything, but it still reveals that this man is one of action, and will prefer instant reactions and snap decisions to counter Kid.

That tendency must be balanced by moving more slowly, analysing each situation for being a trick before daring to react. Officers cannot disobey their commander, but now he is here and can compensate for their—his lips quirk—blind spot.

The hiss of gas or smoke becomes noticeable half a second before the eye-watering smell. The officers closest to the painting are neutralised by coughing fits until the sickly-sweet smell diminishes, and then Nakamori swears.

_Pulse_.

The Adam's Smile frame hasn't moved, but the canvas no longer bears the mottled texture of paint. Flat white displays kanji in pale grey outline, ink or paint raised a hairsbreadth above the background surface to declare that Kid already possesses the painting.

True to expectations, Nakamori leads the men in a veritable stampede outside the room to search for Kid before he escapes the museum altogether. Hang back a moment longer, waiting, and after a few moments the reward is another quiet cough.

_Pulse, strobe the sequence of movement._

One officer, still kneeling on the ground, rises and waves at the task force's vanishing backs, then declares in English, "Have fun stormin' da castle!"

Don't_ choke_.

It takes approximately forty-one dark seconds to recover from the shock of Kid knowing obscure American culture, precious seconds that Kid uses to remove the Adam's Smile. People say Kid is good at imitations, but that bloody well sounded like an audio clip straight out of the movie he was quoting, complete with the New Yorker nasal. (It had been Eric's favorite movie when they were six. They both still have the entire script memorised.)

Banish amusement and school the features, made easier by the tiny feeling of almost-betrayal. He came to chase a genius criminal—how can the thief stoop to using mere parlour tricks? Unless such obvious illusions are truly the extent of Kid's abilities… but that doesn't bear thinking about.

Step out of the shadows instead, and confront him.

"When something cannot be found in its proper location, onlookers decide it must have vanished. Not even stage magicians stoop to the level of such an antiquated optical illusion these days…"

Kid is a vacuum of sound, all attention on this unexpected piece's arrival in the game. That's right, Kid, the knight's angular movement is not so easily anticipated or manipulated as Nakamori's rook-straight lines of thought. Hakuba means white horse, and that is exactly what he is.

_Pulse._

Let fingers trace the pocket watch; step close enough to loom near Kid's kneeling frame. "You are one minute and 13.02 seconds too late to escape, Kaitou Kid-san."

"Well, the weather kinda backed me up."

Kid _banters. _It's not a trait advertised to the general public. Luckily, he has plenty of practice in this regard.

A rush of air, before he can reply, and time—stutters. One second Kid is crouched on the ground, and the next the thief's laughter echoes down from the observation balcony that circles the domed exhibit hall.

"But you're the one who's too late!"

Don't panic. Control is everything; the smallest of slips… can't happen. Won't.

The thread of time still holds true, unbroken, simply distended somehow.

_Pulse. Hold. No more surprises until it's over…_

The same disturbing second that took Kid fifteen feet up also granted time enough to exchange the disguise for his trademark costume, white suit and hat and cape. No wonder the thief sees little need to be more sophisticated, if he can do things like _that_.

Kid still isn't getting out that way. "Ah, should I mention that I already cut the rope? The blimp should be well on its way into the sky by now…"

Stalk up the stairs to the balcony as the window swings open, and hear Kid inhale sharply.

"You no longer have any means of escape." Kid is caught; there's no way out without risking a physical confrontation. Keep the hat brim low as Kid turns around. "Tell me… Why do you steal? What purpose could it serve?"

Maybe Kid is just a thrill-seeker. Hopefully not. It's a reason, but a poor one, especially for a man who seems to stretch time like rubber.

"Heh." Metal unfolds, transforming white cape into a triangle of stretched cloth. "Isn't it _your_ job to find out the answer?"

…He's never gotten that response before, but he's only asked it of criminals with no avenue of escape. Kid doesn't think he's beaten yet.

"A hang glider?" The words tumble out, incredulous. "Do you think you're Batman?"

Aidan loves comic books, comic book characters. It's almost impossible to really appreciate them any more, especially not the way he did when he was similarly five. Additionally, a glider is a poor choice of escape tonight, even if the snow has stopped falling.

"Batman is a comic book hero," Kid replies, voice dropped to an almost-purr. "Not a real life one."

Perhaps he's less practiced in banter than he thought, because Kid swoops away before he can say a word.

"A foolish decision." Kid can't hear him. He says it anyway, speaking aloud an old habit. "Weather predicted strong winds from the north-north-west tonight, unsuitable for flight…"

Sense the winds catch Kid and careen him in a controlled crash into a thick snow bank, not twenty feet from where Nakamori searches. The chase commences for real, into the closed amusement park across the street, and while Kid escapes after all, he leaves behind a noteworthy detail—ice turns the sophisticated thief into a clumsy amateur.

Pull out his personal notebook, click the pen, and carefully, carefully, make a shorthand note. He's outside now, at the edge of the Task Force huddled around an inflatable decoy. No one is paying much attention, but there is still peripheral vision to account for.

Purpose complete, hand over the bagged police notebook to Nakamori for evidence, smile charmingly, and promise to see him at the next heist. Ignoring the sputter, turn and head for the street to hail a taxi, tell the driver to head for home.

As the taxi pulls out into the snow-covered streets, he smiles. Kid will be worthy opponent after all.

* * *

_23:54:49._

The housekeeper has tea waiting. British style, bless her, remembered from before mother was compelled back to England to manage the family estates.

Take the tray upstairs to his room and savor the strong flavor without sweetener. (Eric happily dumps half a dozen lumps of sugar into his own without flinching, one of many small preferences that leave them rolling their eyes at each other.)

Relax.

…He's not good at it. Even here, with no one to see, it's hard to let down his guard. It's… not home. Home is still wrapped up in a mother and two brothers, one who thinks he walks on water and one who pulled him out from being in over his head.

Set the empty teacup aside and check the time. Past midnight—nine hours behind Tokyo in London, Eric should be home from rugby practice by now. If he can find his mobile…

It's in the coat hung up in the wardrobe across the room.

Sod it. He's tired, his hands still ache, and he doesn't want to get up. Focus, and the mobile worms out of the deep pocket, flies across the room and drops neatly into his raised hand.

"Thank you." It doesn't answer.

Flip it open, speed dial one, and lean back further into the overstuffed recliner. With the footrest up, lying nearly flat, it's a serious temptation to not move again until morning. The mobile rings, once, twice, thrice…

"Harcourt." The voice is the echo of his, albeit distorted by electronics and sounding distracted.

"Read your caller ID next time, Eric." It's almost a relief to switch back to English. Yes, he's bilingual, has only ever spoken Japanese with father, but it's been almost ten years since he lived in Japan. Speaking Japanese is relatively easy, but hearing it from every direction is new and a bit jarring. With such close attunement to auditory input, it's harder to filter out background conversation.

"Saguru!" The evening's residual tension unwinds immediately at the smile in Eric's voice. "How was the heist? It was tonight—today—bugger time zones, it's over now, right?"

He laughs. "Yes, I'm home now. It… was interesting."

"Were there any problems? You're all right? No migraine?"

"You're clucking again." He's obliged to tease, even if it is a bit nice to be reminded that Eric cares. He came to Japan expecting that he would miss his brothers—he didn't anticipate feeling like he's lost a hand.

"I'm the big brother. It's my job to worry about you."

"I'm fine. It was mostly waiting, with perhaps twenty minutes of action. I didn't have to use my edge as much as we thought I might, at least this time."

"Good. The last thing you need is to be snarly around news cameras." Eric is still smiling, the jibe a gentle one. It's true, though. Migraines seem to knock his verbal censor offline, so that he has a tendency to, in a still perfectly civil tone of voice, chew the nearest source of irritation into so much mincemeat.

"…Huh. There wasn't any media there afterward tonight, now that I think about it." He scowls faintly. "I suspect Father may have meddled."

"He only wants things to work out. If something _had_ happened, at least it wouldn't have been plastered all over the morning news."

"Mmm."

"So what was it like? Give me the rundown."

"It's good I came. Kid will be worth chasing." Oblige Eric's request with an ordered and fairly blow-by-blow account of the evening, except for Kid's odd time-stretching. He doesn't want to mention that by name over the phone when they can be more circumspect. Old paranoia dies hard.

"I think…" He hesitates. "I think he's like me."

"Like you? You think he's pulling off all of those crazy escapes b—"

"No, don't be daft. I mean… He has an edge. Like me. Some of his impossibilities really are impossible, from… a normal person's perspective."

"No kidding?" Eric's voice is just slightly awed, before regaining its typical jaunty tone. "We were right, then! That's great."

He's been trying to not think about it. They've long suspected that the edge can't be wholly unique in the world, but coming to Japan wasn't to look for that. To have found it _here_, of all places, in a criminal he plans to _catch_…

"Do recall that he's still a thief. Given the context, I'm not entirely certain he's employing the edge consciously, and I'm hardly going to invite him over for tea."

"Are you sure? He's audacious enough that he might show up if you did."

"Ha ha." Even if not trying to pass for normal, it's poor strategy to give away a weakness to an opponent or alert them to an advantage.

"Well, if you found one, maybe there are more. Tokyo _is_ traditionally a weirdness magnet, after all."

"It's possible, I suppose." He sighs. "With my luck, the only other person I find like this will be Kid's civilian identity."

Eric is silent, likely wanting to reassure him about his luck, but there's nothing to be said. "You won't know unless you look, little brother."

"In my copious free time. I start school tomorrow… Year-end exams are in a week." They've allowed him to transfer immediately rather than waiting for the beginning of next year, another favor to father, or perhaps grandfather. The Superintendent General of the entire Tokyo Metropolitan Police and the founder-head of Hakuba Research Labs tend to be granted exceptions. He's not sure whether to be grateful that he can gauge his academic standing immediately, or frustrated that exceptions seem determined to haunt him everywhere.

"Hell, I forgot about the term differences." Another pause. "You're sure you don't want me there?"

He's not. Navigating a new building without Eric to point out the words on printed signs that have no contour depths, the subject matter of pictures hanging about, the colours of their classmates' hair and eyes and clothes… It's more than a little daunting.

This edge is mere force, tightly controlled: a traveling pressure wave that traces the surrounding contours with feather-light touch, or if allowed, an invisible hand that can move or hit or crush.

Breathe. Remember the reasons for coming in the first place. "Yes, Eric. I told you, back when I first decided to do this… I'll always be your twin. I need to know who I am, when I'm not."

A sigh. "I know. Just take care of yourself… I'm glad the heist went by without a hitch."

"As am I." Check the time. Mentally curse that the day starts again in close to five hours. "I'm sorry, I hate to dash, but I do need some sleep before tomorrow."

"Of course, don't let me keep you." Eric is far too accommodating. Sometimes it's annoying, but at times like now it's a blessing.

"I'll call you again tomorrow evening. Give my love to mother and Aidan."

"Will do. He's going to be disappointed that he missed talking to you, so expect to be on speakerphone tomorrow."

He smiles. "I'm looking forward to it."

Another reluctant goodbye and the room is silent, only thoughts for company. Eyes close, and pressure against his eyelids reminds him of why bypassing the nighttime routine is a poor idea. Reluctantly, he abandons the chair and prepares for bed, taking small comfort in the familiar order, clothes and teeth and face.

Last of all are the eyes.

Remove the coloured contacts lenses, one more way to pass for normal. If no one looks too closely, all they'll see is expected brown. They won't see that his eyes don't usually focus _quite_ right through long blond bangs on what's in front of him—forcing the muscles to approximate what memory suggests would serve is a significant strain. Doing it more than a time or two almost guarantees a migraine, and even with Eric's whispered coaching he never feels entirely confident in the ruse.

It's likely that despite the off-putting conceit inherent in the expression, he's going to be smirking more than he smiles. Smile, and people expect you to be looking at someone. Smirk, and you can look anywhere.

Put the lenses away in the proper case, plastic Braille on the lids denoting brown's left and right. White-ringed brown is for Japan like white-ringed blue is for England, both hiding away scarred, clouded blue.

Indulge in self-pity for just a moment and _pulse_, filling black void with a snapshot of shapes and planes and angles etched in colourless white and grey. Given a choice between this and endless black forever, monochrome is preferable—but sometimes it's almost worse to have the sense halfway, and know every detail of what's missing.

Colour.

Light.

Transparency.

Reflection.

_Pulse. Hold._

The bathroom outlines again in a 360º panorama. At eye-height stands a white rectangle, forever opaque as his fingers trail over the cold, smooth surface—the mirror holding an image he's never going to see.

* * *

Thoughts, comments, questions, criticism? Interested in more? Please review. ^^

Ocianne

3/10

[Edit 7/10: Timeline considerations have revised Saguru's age to the same as his classmates, sixteen. The exception of his transfer is now in the timing.]


	3. Azure

Shades of Grey: Azure

* * *

_Monday, 2 March. 12:43:02._

Exams. Of all the things related to school that he's taken on in his quest to publicly appear normal, exams are perhaps the worst. There is no teacher lecturing to listen to with nearly eidetic recall, only line after endless line of inked characters outlined on paper in faint grey, and his penmanship cannot stay restricted to the private scribbled shorthand he uses at all other times but this. Edge use is required almost constantly, between reading the questions and watching the position of the pen as it skitters across the paper in answer.

By the end of the first test it's obvious that even with painkillers and possibly a nap snatched during lunchtime, every day is going to end with a migraine until exams are over. All he can do is hope to escape the building before anyone tries to talk, or (Holmes save him) tries to _flirt_. Several girls in class seem to have decided that the new-transfer status, decent pedigree, and exotic appearance—upper eyelid folds, for one, and _his_ tea-brown hair is natural—make for prime boyfriend material.

He wishes they wouldn't. Eric would have lapped up the attention, angled for at least one date with every girl in the class and somehow managed to still keep all of them happy, but in this at least the difference between them is already clear. Perhaps if extended social interaction were less stressful and exhausting, or he actually felt interested in any of them, he would be charming for reasons other than to keep them happily at a distance.

It's a minor blessing that one of the more tolerable girls is Keiko, budding journalist for the school newspaper. She is one of the centres of school gossip, and thus a valuable source of information about both individuals and the hidden social structure of the school. Through her love to relay news he comes to the conclusion that it is another minor blessing that Koizumi Akako is _not_ one of the girls necessary to placate.

Two weeks is not enough time to quell gossip about a beautiful girl, so amidst the other rumors Keiko cheerfully relayed over the first week of school, he learned of Akako's mastery over every male in the school on Valentine's Day—except for Kuroba, who'd flatly refused to part with his precious trove of chocolates received from other girls in order to be gifted with hers. Keiko had been quite impressed by that point, even if she did credit Kuroba's all-eclipsing love of chocolate as the primary reason.

Akako is beautiful, he supposes, but to him she is no different from how any other person he senses through his edge might be. She is beautiful in the way a marble statue bears the term: white and smooth and seemingly cold, with pupil-less eyes staring into visions he cannot see. Her eternal poise and even temperament only serves to make the similarity to dead stone worse.

In addition, she is oddly blurred in ways that other people are not, as if the edge cannot get too close and skids around her instead. Had Keiko not specifically pointed her out during lunch period, it's doubtful her presence would have been noted by edge-pulse alone. Perhaps there is something in the sight of her that draws others inextricably, something edge perception is immune to, but that then leaves the question of Kuroba's apparent immunity.

Kuroba seems to delight in provoking questions, none of which have answers. Of course, now that Akako has been noticed, she seems determined to give Kuroba a run for his money in that department. Even which classroom she's in is still unclear, but it's not important enough to risk asking a question that likely ought to be known already.

Keiko's best friend, Aoko, at least, is refreshingly straightforward. She has been friendly from the first day, when she learned that he plans to continue working alongside her father on the Kid Task Force. A smile and a wave is her greeting during lunch today, even though the general interest regarding a new transfer student has died down beneath the stress of finals beginning. The gesture is enough to divert the original intention of eating up a tree, where it's possible to relax out of immediate sight at least for a little while and sleep. Instead, lunch ends up being eaten with excruciating care in the company of Keiko, Aoko, and Kuroba, while Aoko and Kuroba argue like siblings and Keiko attempts to flirt.

Perhaps Aoko's energy is why she appears to be more attractive than Akako or Keiko. Every gesture and movement and expression that she makes is wholly, vibrantly _alive_.

…In a world of mobile stone statues, to find one radiating heat is a rare treasure indeed.

She is brightest, it seems, when in the company of Kuroba. Kuroba, who cannot seem to decide if he is sixteen or six and delights in baiting his childhood friend. There has already been opportunity to witness their semi-traditional mop-dodging dance, and a bit of incredulity remains that no one else seems to find this the slightest bit odd.

"It's just the way they are," Keiko has confided out of the pair's earshot. "The biggest bet of our year is when they'll figure things out and start dating." Placing 1000 yen on 'Not Before Graduation', the latest in time that the betting pool goes, may be only wishful thinking, but given Kuroba's antics, maybe not.

The rest of Kuroba's energy—which belongs to a child less than half his age—seems to be channeled into other class disruptions, often involving confetti or doves, and only God knows how Kuroba manages to keep a _dove_ smuggled on his person without anyone in administration intervening. Two, actually, named Yuki and Irene, who perch on Kuroba's shoulders and hair during lunch period and try to steal bits of lunches. Kuroba claims that they only do that to people they like, but given that the Baaya-made bentos have lost tempura and sushi both times they've been eaten in Kuroba's company while Aoko's lunch remains unscathed, it seems justified to remain more than a little skeptical. Animals tend to pick up things from owners, and Kuroba's love of Kid and disdain for Kid's hounds is common knowledge. Once there's energy to spare for anything but passing exams with decent scores, presumably he and Kuroba will have more than one argument about Kid.

Absurdly, he's looking forward to it.

Kuroba may be the class clown, but he's also the first one done for almost every test, even if he stays bent over his desk in a pretense of work until at least three other classmates have finished as well. It's only been noticeable because Kuroba's desk is to the immediate left, and there is an audible difference between a pen scratching kanji and one doodling along the edges of the paper. Why Kuroba wants to hide his competence is difficult to say, but there is a difference between being the class fool, whom everyone likes, and the class brain, whom everyone loves to hate. The fact that Kuroba seems to have realized that fact points to him not only being smart, but _clever_—and might be someone capable of keeping his mind sharp outside of Kid heists, what with Eric not being around to do so.

Now if only Kuroba didn't seem to limit himself to two expressions, either smiling one of a thousand smiles or soberly concentrating. It makes him seem as if he's a Greek actor switching between Tragedy and Comedy Masks as the situation demands, with no place for any real expression behind them. It's impossible not to wonder what happened to prompt such behavior, even though everyone else considers it normal.

It's not. And he knows a fair amount about masks, after all.

He has half tuned out Keiko in favor of contemplating Kuroba's mysteries when the bell rings the end of lunch.

_Pulse_, to ensure he won't bump into anyone as they all rise.

The dual sensation of ghost-pressure presence and inverted snapshot catches Kuroba's face at an odd angle. There's… something… about the jaw line, when Kuroba's face is neither stretched in a smile nor thoughtfully serious, but somewhere in between. It's familiar, oddly so, but he's too tired to determine who else in a thousand faces might look similar to the aspiring magician. There are two and a half more days of mental strain to survive, and the lack of a catnap today will only serve to make things worse.

Still… he knows he'd do it again, to be recipient once more of Aoko's vibrant smile.

* * *

So, the bunnies went a'gnawing and turned out this. Who would be interested in seeing Nearby Enemy through Saguru's eyes?

Please review!

Ocianne

3/10


	4. Sable

Shades of Grey: Sable

* * *

_Thursday, 5 March. 08:22:38._

In a quirk of irony, Kid has seen fit to name the first school day between the end of exams and the end of the school year as the day of his next heist. Between the two, the halls are full of excited chatter.

Dodge schoolmates—there's no rush, the school bell won't ring for another seven minutes and twenty-two seconds—and _hold_ against the ground just long enough to switch to school slippers with a grace that is not actually reflexive. It's better than teetering when a lack of visual input plays havoc with his balance, and when they first formulated the details of the masquerade, Eric had insisted that there be a few ways to show off, if only for the two of them. He can't say if it's a successful stress release valve or not, but he's still sane after six-odd years, which means something is working.

Pointedly ignore the pessimistic inner voice wondering if that something was Eric rather than the occasional private indulgence.

Ignoring is made easier by exchanging greetings with a few classmates on the way to the second floor—technically the third under Japanese convention—eyes theoretically focused on the open criminal forensics article atop his books. Having a secondary focus during conversations has always worked well, and a reputation as a bookworm is hardly unwelcome. It's always been that way, even before the accident, preferring his own company to classmates who couldn't keep up with him. Just Eric was enough.

"Good morning, Kaito!" The delight in Aoko's voice stops him just outside the classroom door, not wanting to risk interrupting her excitement by entering. A _pulse_ from around the corner is sufficient to capture her expression, and he cannot help but _hold_ her in his edge, capturing each movement in mind as he listens. "Did you know I entered a raffle for PrincePrince concert tickets? Guess how I did!"

"You got 'em, right?" Surprisingly, Kuroba's voice is unmistakably apathetic, and his face has temporarily shed the typical theatre-mask countenance to match. Aoko doesn't seem to find this remarkable, either, which is potentially significant.

"Right! I got two tickets!" She cannot be unaware how oddly—'adorable' is the only word that comes to mind—she is with her hands clasped under her chin. She seems determined to present herself as younger than she is, between certain mannerisms and her third-person method of self-reference—that sort of thing seems common among primary and lower secondary school students, not among their peers—but after only little over a week's observation determining why is impossible.

"Anyone could figure that out from your face, idiot," Kuroba retorts, level of interest unchanging.

"What's with you?" Aoko demands, disappointment audible. "I was going to ask you to come, but keep it up and I'll ask someone else."

He's stepped inside the room before his brain catches up with his feet, silently dropping books on the desk to Kuroba's left as the other teen dismisses Aoko for a second time. He can do this, it's a perfect opportunity, and Kuroba won't even be able protest.

"How troublesome, my lady."

His brain still hasn't caught up with his instincts. When she turns, saying his name with surprise, the automatic response is to take refuge in a short list of personal information. Their solid truth is a comfort until the realisation hits partway through that as pick-up lines go, this spiel probably belongs solidly in the 'narcissistic twit' category.

Since it can't be taken back and half the classroom has turned to watch, his first attempt to ask a girl out might as well fail with style.

"It would be an honor to accompany you anywhere." Capturing her hand for a brief kiss belongs to a foreign set of manners, he belatedly realises, a set somewhat crosswise to the use of polite Japanese, but he's beyond caring at this point. Odd but harmless, that's all… and the faint pressure of her hand in his and warmth against his lips reaffirms that all other sensory evidence to the contrary, he inhabits a country of flesh and blood and not of stone.

Inner pessimism rears its head once more to point out that Eric and Aidan used to provide that reassurance, so why choose to leave them behind again? He quashes it with such ferocity as he focuses edge and gaze on Aoko that he's probably looking at her cross-eyed.

"The man who refuses your offer is not worthy of your company."

"B…But…" She turns her head slightly, sneaking a sidelong glance at Kuroba. It seems the classroom bet on their relationship probably exists for a reason.

"Hmph, a detective who can't catch Kid and the daughter of the Inspector who can't either…" A derisive laugh accompanies Kuroba's manic grin. "You two are well-matched!"

If Kuroba refuses to acknowledge it, however…

"Hey, what do you mean by that?" Aoko protests, turning her back to give Kuroba a hurt look.

A small chuckle escapes. Far be it to ignore a chance to prod the fascinating puzzle that is Kuroba, as well. "You favor Kid so much… How about a wager? Tonight, if I can catch Kid…" Lightly rest a hand on Aoko's shoulder, and wonder if the almost imperceptible movement Kuroba makes when she looks back counts as a twitch. "Would you allow me to go with you?"

Aoko fairly lights up, all smiles again, an image carefully tucked away into memory. "Yeah! If you catch him, we can go to the concert together."

In the unusually quiet noise level of the classroom, Kuroba's faint snigger is easy to pick out. "Hah, like Kaitou Kid will let you catch him."

"Kid is a genius, unlike yourself." At least there is no evidence for such, much less any claim to it on Kuroba's part, not even in jest. Nor does Kuroba have any idea just _how_ talented Kid truly is, and likely never will.

"I won't use an ordinary trap with him…" In fact, Kid's surprise for tonight took over half of the previous weekend to prepare, collaborating with one of the researchers in Grandfather's lab. "But on the off chance that I lose, I'll concede you the privilege of being Aoko-kun's escort to the concert tonight."

"Interesting!" Sight isn't necessary to sense the growing pressure of Kuroba's full attention, like an invisible storm. Perhaps Kuroba cares for Aoko more than he openly admits. "I don't actually want to go, but I'll accept your challenge. Watching you lose sounds like fun."

Or perhaps Kuroba is simply that Kid-obsessed. It's impossible to tell for sure.

* * *

_12:03:56_

After the drama of their initial confrontation, the relief of the class is almost palpable when Kuroba proceeds to do nothing disruptive through the lunchtime bell. He seems practically attentive, even going so far as to volunteer answers during History and Japanese, though the tell tale sounds of doodling occur during both Mathematics.

At the bell a gaggle of female classmates, judging by the squeals and sudden increase of perfume in the vicinity, promptly descend on Aoko and carry her in their wake to retrieve their lunches. An overhead demand for 'Details!' as they exit the room promptly confirms that inside the building will be an undesirable location for the next thirty minutes. Retreating goes unnoticed by all except possibly Kuroba, and even then the distance makes it uncertain if the pulse-image of Kuroba facing the back of the room means Kuroba is watching him, or watching Aoko's egress, or something else only the magician knows.

He's had his eye on a tree by the football (traditional, not American) clubhouse since transferring, but hasn't had opportunity to investigate before today: the week before exams had half the class asking questions about his interests during lunch period, and then the past few days have alternated between eating with Aoko's circle of friends and simply falling asleep at his desk from the moment the morning's last test finished until the post-lunch clean up began. Today is an ideal day to remedy the earlier neglect, winter sun shining through the clouds to lessen the worst of the cold.

Retrieving coat and bento from their places, quickly switch to outdoor shoes and head outside. One quick _pulse_ reveals the best ascent route, and hooking the bento's wrapping cloth onto one wrist leaves both hands free to climb.

He's astride the lowest crook of branches and trunk in a matter of seconds without edge-cheating, and settles experimentally against the smooth bark. The smooth is _important—_it's impossible stretch out and nap after eating if the branch is rough against shoulders or chest. Luckily, this tree seems perfectly suitable, and a delighted grin spreads while unpacking lunch in the privacy of ten feet off the ground. He lets the grin stay there as he eats, because everyone else in the school has better things to do at the moment than look out the window and catch the display of open emotion.

Appetite sated, lean back with hands clasped over the stomach and eyes closed, letting the mind drift. It's not the same as sleep, but it's restful all the same, and letting thoughts order themselves on occasion leaves the mind clearer afterward.

Unsurprisingly, said mind wanders back to the puzzle of contradictions that is Kuroba. He's not quite a complete opposite—they both stand out from the crowd at the very least, if for different reasons—but he's not like anyone else ever known before, either. There's a carelessness to him, and a certain tone in his voice (when not arguing with Aoko) that feels reminiscent of Eric when the two of them would share a private joke. Kuroba seems to be having his own private joke with the rest of the world.

In the privacy of personal thoughts, it's possible to admit to being faintly jealous of Kuroba's devil-may-care attitude. Planning life down to the minuscule details can't be helped, because there are a dozen things to account for at any given time in order to keep everything running smoothly, what with being stuck not-quite-blind in a world that won't take kindly to discovering that something akin to pressure-telekinesis and (not so theoretically, any more) other edges exist.

Of course, that's assuming that Kuroba's careless approach to life is real, rather than a similarly calculated front to downplay a mind clever enough to blend in, and to detract from how elaborate the planning must be for Kuroba's legendary pranks. Masks inside of masks…

He definitely needs to put Kuroba's mind to the test.

Wants to, pessimism whispers, hoping for an equal where he won't risk a friend.

If Kuroba rises to the bait and turns out to be as smart as speculation wonders, it will confirm the need to take the same care at school as when working with law enforcement.

And Kuroba would be a safe rival, who can't potentially show him up in front of colleagues who only tolerate their young intruder at the moment. Someone who, unlike Kid, can't disappear while trying to figure out what makes him tick.

Abruptly sit up and jump lightly to the ground, empty bento box tucked under an arm. There are better things to do than listen to a mental voice when it contradicts sound logic. Especially when it sounds too much like Eric for comfort.

It's easier to start considering an appropriate puzzle to drop on Kuroba, one not so easy as to be insulting and not so difficult that he can't get at least a response of some sort. The rumination serves well as a distraction during clean up and continues in the background through afternoon classes. By final dismissal he's settled on the classic, simplest version of the Knights and Knaves puzzle, and needs only the best way to make Kuroba unable to ignore it. _Without_ giving the rumor mill fodder in the meantime—it doesn't bear thinking about what Keiko's compatriots would spin if he were seen slipping the note into Kuroba's shoe locker.

If he had the bad sense to do that, Eric would laugh his head off when he heard and say that whatever happened was well deserved. To avoid anything of the sort, the best way to approach is to be obvious without being ostentatious. To that end, while the rest of the class gathers their belongings and prepares to scatter to their respective clubs or cleaning duties, pick up the puzzle as written out during the last five minutes of English and set it on Kuroba's desk.

"Eh, what's this?" The self-proclaimed magician pokes the paper gingerly with a finger, as if expecting it to explode.

"Since you're so enamored of an international thief, I thought you should appreciate an international riddle."

"Wow, you wrote it in English, Hakuba-kun?" Keiko declares. "Your writing is so tidy!"

"I've had a great deal of practice." Force the dryness out, Keiko means well. Packs books into their briefcase instead, and _pulse_. Kuroba's eyes are narrowed faintly, considering. Perfect. "If the English is too difficult for you, Kuroba-kun, I could attempt a Japanese translation…"

If he didn't know better, the grin revealed by a subsequent _pulse_ would almost seem to have fangs. "Nah. Stuff always gets lost in translation." The paper rustles as Kuroba folds and tucks it away somewhere. "Have fun losing at the heist tonight, Hakuba-kun."

This time, allow the dry sarcasm free reign. "I'm sure I'll manage somehow."

Either Kid will be caught, or Kuroba will go with Aoko to the concert tonight. Either way, Aoko will be happy. It's possible to be content for the time being with that.

However, since he really _wants_ to go to the concert with Aoko, it's time to bloody well make Kid _work_ for the heist this evening.

* * *

Please review!

Ocianne

6/10


	5. Argent

Shades of Grey: Argent

* * *

_Thursday, 5 March. 17:12:00._

Luckily, transferring so late in the year means no after-school club commitments for the time being. As it is, he arrives at the museum with exactly twenty-eight minutes to spare. The sun will be almost setting now, according to his calculations, since Kid's promised arrival time is just after when twilight should begin.

_Pulse._

Policemen are everywhere, concentrated around the statue Kid promises to steal—really, how does Kid plan to _lift_ the thing? It's cast bronze!—and off to one side, Nakamori's boisterous gravel explains the police's precautions to a news camera.

Skirting around them to reach the statue is not exactly hiding from the interview, an impossible task given the deerstalker and Inverness (_harmless, odd but harmless_). However, despite the recent reputation in London, he has yet to give an interview alone and isn't looking forward to the prospect. Kneel in front of the target and double-check the preventative measure added alone earlier this week, in the outfit of a metal worker. Easier to allow the police and museum staff to each credit the other with adding the thick bronze chain between the statue base and the floor of the exhibit room—responsible adults tend to frown on a teenager wielding a welding torch.

"And now, let's interview the famous detective Hakuba Saguru!"

Don't act like you heard that from so far across the room, most sighted people don't have hearing acuity in noise so finely tuned…

"He's, um… Ah!" Stay bent over the chain as her heels click across the marble floor. "What are you doing, Hakuba-kun?"

Focus. Calm. Aoko will be watching the heist's broadcast tonight.

…Focus.

"We have to take every precaution, because—" face the camera, eyes focused for just the few crucial seconds, "—tonight's face-off has extra significance to me." Turn back to the statue. Aoko will understand, and it won't hurt for the rest of the television audience to associate him with an air of mystery.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm afraid it's a personal matter, madam."

"Ahh, so cruel to our viewers! Will you tell us why you decided to chase Kid, Hakuba-kun?"

_Because he's safe. Because he can keep me sane while I let Eric pursue his own interests for the first time in years rather than feel obligated to be my eyes._

Stick to the third truth. "Because I find his _modus operandi_ intriguing. What sort of man makes a game of breaking the law?"

"You'll treat us to your famous question if you catch him, right?"

He's still not certain which reporter decided to hype his investigation of the criminal mindset as a 'signature question', but it's always better to go with the flow of mass media than against it.

"Of course. A man's character is formed by what drives him to act. To understand the man, you must understand his motives." Let one hand trace the watch in its pocket. Ten minutes and forty-one seconds left. "If you'll excuse me, I need to speak with Nakamori-keibu…"

Escape complete, approach Nakamori as the officers finish another round of checking in, no news to report. Ask, as if the past two days haven't been spent adding an extra surprise to the police's infrared sensors, "Keibu, how many officers are guarding the basement?"

"None!" Nakamori boasts. "Kid isn't stupid enough to take on the automatic sensors."

Don't smirk.

"Of course. Don't let me get in your way…" Wander downstairs to the basement. Yamamura, his main contact in Grandfather's lab, helped implement the primary preparations here. The infrared is active now, but light and pressure don't interact; visualising the room doesn't set the alarms off, but it doesn't reveal where the beams fall either. A small area by the door is sufficient, though, to lurk in the shadows by a certain wall switch.

Five minutes, twenty-seven seconds.

Sound at the far wall—metal creaks, followed by the distinctive clang of an air duct grille popping off. It shouldn't be enough to plaster an adrenaline grin on his face, but knowing that this heist involves going up against an _edge_…

"Kaitou Kid has arrived!" Silence, silence, wait for the right moment. "They think sensors can stop me?"

_Pulse._

Strange. Kid is halfway out of the air duct, white suit and cape and hat, but somehow the part of his face not covered by a pair of night vision goggles is half-blurred. His lips are parted in a possibly cocky grin, but when trying to analyse the shape of cheeks and jaw the bone structure refuses to be cataloged. Memory confirms that oddly enough, this was true the first time as well, but the fact simply hadn't processed. Without having met Akako, it might not have been noticeable even _this_ time.

…Which suggests that Akako may also have an edge—it would certainly explain how she managed Valentine's Day, except for Kuroba. Maybe it's possible to be immune to certain things. Not enough information. But if she and Kid _both_ have edges… Bloody hell. Tokyo _is_ a weirdness magnet.

If Akako has an edge, hers would have to be part of her whole person, making her stand out and blend in as she pleases, but perhaps Kid's could be concentrated in the symbol of being Kid, to blur only face and nothing else. Anyone can wear a white suit, after all; the monocle and hat (and possibly cape) are what make the thief's costume unique.

Does that blur only affect a pulse, or does it affect normal vision, as well? It might explain Kid's ability to stay anonymous with so much of his face open to exposure…

"Made it!"

Startle and _pulse_, realising that Kid has taken advantage of the mental preoccupation to ascend using—good God, that's a grappling plunger like some window washers use. What kind of supplier does the man have?

"That's far enough, Kaitou Kid!"

"What?" Kid is far too easily surprised. Perhaps he's unaccustomed to being anticipated, if the Task Force is all the challenge he's had.

There's no one else to see; it's safe to indulge in a flair for the dramatic with only another showman as the audience. "Let's open the curtain on tonight's circus!"

Flick the switch and reach inside the Inverness. Valves in the air duct behind open on cue, releasing Grandfather's prized anesthetic gas in its first utilisation since mass production received the green light. Watch without breathing as the formula quickly billows toward the ceiling. If Kid succumbs and falls from his precarious perch, he can be easily caught by a strong edge-pulse; otherwise, using the edge on a person is cheating, violating the pride of a detective and risking exposure besides.

_What magic will you perform tonight, Kid? A trick sufficient to escape this trap?_

"I see… during the circus finale, there's always a smokescreen, right?" Kid sounds far too confident, and unaffected so far.

"Surrender, if you would." There's no call being rude between professionals, since the gas mask retrieved from a coat pocket guarantees that clean air won't be in short supply afterward. "It's your loss."

"Really? How about if I…"

Kid doesn't finish his sentence—that's easy enough to predict. However, even knowing what will happen doesn't make a difference when one moment Kid is clinging to his tether line with one hand and holding an object too bulky to be a real gun in the other, and the very next moment there is a sound not quite like a gunshot effectively simultaneous to a _playing card_ (ace of spades, edge declares, but too little and too late) knocking the face mask into the air.

"Damn it!" Ignore the hand feeling half-raw from the mask ripping away; Kid has already dropped the two stories from ceiling to floor in another disorienting time-distortion that seems to let him reach the ground before gravity accelerates him to an unsafe landing speed. Lunge for the mask instead, there's still a chance to reach it before Kid does and that much movement will have tripped the sensors' silent alarm to alert Nakamori…

Collision is inevitable, but it still takes sheer force of will to not react beyond a breathless grunt when—_augh!_—in the struggle to get ahead, Kid's fingers dig into some of the hypersensitive skin on his shoulders and an elbow knocks into a similar patch around his right-hand third and fourth ribs.

_Don't react don't react can't hit him with the edge __**don't react**__…_

Iron control holds firm.

Unfortunately, the concentrated calm necessary to keep from lashing out with a high-pressure wave requires _breathing_, and gives Kid the opportunity to surge forward. There's just enough time to hear Kid don the mask and… walk closer rather than away.

Apparently being a gentleman thief requires catching one's opponents before they can face-plant into concrete as the darkness of sedation takes over.

Bugger.

* * *

_?:?:?_

Cherries. His mouth tastes like cherries. Grandfather had mentioned that if you were going to knock someone out it might as well be a pleasant, but… cherries? Really? The smell had vaguely registered earlier, but it had been buried beneath more important considerations like not throwing Kid into a wall.

_Kid!_

_Pulse._

He's in one of the galleries adjacent to the heist target's display, laying on the padded seats they provide for footsore visitors. The museum is quiet, only a few junior officers moving about the statue gallery where said statue is, fortunately, still present. Kid must be long gone, judging by the time that should have passed unconscious from inhaling that much gas—

Wait one blinking minute… automatically reaching for the pocket watch comes up with nothing but pleated trousers and empty air, because the requisite coat pocket is missing.

Kid stole the _Inverness_, the bloody little sod!

Sitting up, equilibrium makes clear that he's still woozy and not to move unless absolutely necessary for a few more minutes at least. He runs a hand through his already-disheveled hair. Two days of preparation and it culminates in a headache, no win, no capture, and given the probable time Aoko and Kuroba are likely enjoying the music concert together by now.

"Damn it." The coat had better still be somewhere in the museum, or all promises of fair play are off. The coat itself is easily replaced but the _watch_ was in there—Grandda's watch, inherited when the man died and prompted their relocation to England. It's silver, monogrammed with both grandparents' initials, and one of rather few things uniquely _his_.

Breathe. Don't start contemplating revenge for something that may not be permanent. Gingerly stand and weave across the room to the adjacent gallery instead, hoping to find the missing property or otherwise catch someone's attention.

"Ah! Hakuba-kun!" Swift footsteps across tile herald the approach of an officer whose voice is familiar, one of the rookies who promised to help with the paperwork Nakamori is going to insist on if this attachment to the Kid Task Force lasts longer than a month. Murakami Kenji, memory supplies.

_Pulse,_ grateful that disorientation can cover for unfocused and half-lidded eyes while examining the far side of the room. The distant wall is clearer now that it's closer—a pulse's range for fine detail is limited by the nature of pressure, especially when keeping the edge below the average threshold of human somatosensory awareness.

The _pulse_ catches Murakami in its wake, defining sharp-angled fine bone structure and an even sharper gaze, softened by a genial disposition. In fact, taking in the jaw line for the man's almost-smile, an abrupt sense of déjà vu heralds the realisation that Murakami looks vaguely like Kuroba.

…Kuroba must never realise this, or the magician may take a page from Kid's book and try infiltrating the police force for a chance to be up close and personal with his idol.

"Hello, Murakami-keiji. Kid got away?"

"Yes, but Nakamori-keibu protected the statue!" Murakami sounds almost as proud as if he'd done so himself. "Kid, er… appeared from the ladder access below disguised as you…"

"I assumed as much, as he apparently took my coat."

"Yes, it was an incredible disguise. No one realised it wasn't you until we found you in the basement, and Kid tried to float away with the statue. The big chain stopped him, though, and Nakamori-keibu shot a hole in his hot air balloon."

Don't smirk, even if _your _plan B is what kept the target safe in the end.

"I hope he didn't fly away with my coat still in his possession."

"Oh! No, it's been taken to the station… Nakamori-keibu insisted the clothes and latex be checked for fingerprints, just in case." The man bows slightly. "Since it's yours, I'm sure you'll be able to pick it up by tomorrow morning, Hakuba-kun."

Father's position shows its influence once more. It still catches him off guard at times, because the promotion occurred only a few years ago and has hardly had any impact on life in England.

Bow back, a hair lower—the man is almost a decade older, after all—and shelve all thoughts of a retaliatory volley until the next Kid note comes around. "Thank you; that should be fine."

"Good… Do you need a ride home? I know most of your personal effects must have been in there…"

Checking trouser pockets reveals both wallet and mobile.

…They'd been in the Inverness's outer pockets. What kind of thief steals a coat but takes the time to relocate the primary possessions first? While still keeping the secondary and no less _important_ possessions, just to be provoking.

Apparently, it's the kind who delights in contradictions and driving the rest of the world absolutely barmy.

* * *

Keibu: Police Inspector.

Murakami Kenji is a Task Force rookie who resembles Kaito somewhat. Shamelessly stolen from the mind of Ellen Brand, because we collaborate together enough that the plotbunnies cross-contaminate.

Please don't forget to review!

Ocianne

6/10


	6. Emerald

Shades of Grey: Emerald

* * *

_Tuesday, 17 March. 08:44:32._

Saint Patrick's day.

The constraints of the school uniform (dark navy with brass buttons and a white undershirt, Baaya described back on the first day of school) means that today's outfit has no green. However, the fact that Japan doesn't celebrate the holiday should have been enough to stay safe.

Should have.

There is no good reason to be sitting in homeroom, trying to process what in the name of Holmes Kuroba just did to his hair. The magician has only been fully mobile for all of two days, free of the ankle brace he'd acquired falling down the stairs of a friend of the family's Billiard Hall, the night of the last Kid heist. (A visit last weekend led to meeting Konosuke Jii over a game and he has every intention of going back for a good challenge, but that's not important right now.) Kuroba should not be just outside of arm's reach among a circle of on-looking classmates, ignoring the teacher as she tries to restore order and grinning like a fiend.

"Aoko-kun?" Calm. A frozen calm, because personal appearance is one of few things he can always control and Kuroba just stole that—_bloody git_—but calm nonetheless. "What did Kuroba-kun just do?"

"Um..." Aoko is one of few classmates trying to hide her amusement, but her voice betrays her.

"It's probably better to just show you," Keiko pipes up. "Here, I have a mirror..."

Close the eyes before she can position the small compact in front of them and force a wry smile to appear. Damn _and _blast Kuroba for forcing a tricky situation so soon. His hair feels essentially unchanged, so the most logical conclusion would be a colour-change, but it's not a complete guarantee. The only way out of this is a gamble, and he hates risk and chance of any degree with a passion matched only by his love of Holmes.

"I'm afraid that will make no difference, Keiko-kun, but thank you." Very carefully keep the smile wry, edging on a smirk, not bittersweet. "I'm colourblind, you see."

_Pulse_, _and hold._

The ring of classmates seems to breathe in simultaneously, several of the more flirtatious girls adding a chorus of "Oh…"s. Aoko's expression is softened in sympathy as well, so perhaps the admittance isn't entirely a loss. Kuroba… has narrowed his eyes. How interesting. He hasn't entirely swallowed the excuse.

"Red-green colourblind, Hakuba-kun? You'd never know it…" At least Keiko is kind enough to give some hint as to the colour. Again, given the day, green hair seems to be the likely suspect, but this is Kuroba. The magician refuses to follow the normative curve at any point that he can find, so the odds of green are approximately the same as the odds of, say, orange.

Though that might lead to worrying implications of exactly how much Kuroba knows about British culture and the family leanings, and the even more pertinent question of _why_.

Best not to speculate, really.

Run a hand through the hair in question, instead, and privately wonder how on earth Kuroba pulled it off. Commercial dyes don't _work_ this fast, even if said hair is now wet.

"Acquired monochromatic." More sympathetic noises from the girls, and even a few winces from the other boys. Though Kuroba appears to still be watching him thoughtfully. "Is there anything else you'd like to contribute, Kuroba-kun? I'm afraid I don't know the official diagnosis's proper translation into Japanese…"

Cerebral achromatopsia is a wonderfully convenient excuse, and even plausible for his situation. Not to mention, the cynical part of his mind adds, technically accurate. No lie is so powerful as the partial truth.

Kuroba grins breezily. "Nah, I'll leave off at giving you green hair."

It's such an innocent smile. Pity it trips every instinct as false cover. "How traditional."

"Traditional?" Aoko's brow furrows, a reminder that Kuroba's eclectic knowledge is not widely shared.

_Don't wonder where it comes from. Just use it as one more piece of evidence that Kuroba-kun is far more competent than he lets on._ The evidence has been growing quickly, aided by the continuing exchange of riddles over the past week and a half. Kuroba included a complicated variant of the River Crossing logic puzzle with his answer to the Knights and Knaves puzzle, and they've slowly escalated from there.

Though the intention is to probe Kuroba's intelligence, and all data collected supports the conclusion that he needs to be very careful what he reveals around the magician, the battle of wits has been… enjoyable. Except now he's apparently become fair game for Kuroba's elaborate pranks.

"March 17th is a holiday associated with green in most English-speaking countries, Aoko-kun. Kuroba-kun apparently decided to join in the festivities."

"Ohhh." Aoko's sudden understanding should not be worrying. "Kaito loves Western culture and holidays."

One of the boys, Yamada-kun, adds, "He covered the classroom with cut-out animal shadows early last month, and made a hat like the American flag appear on Tokomi-sensei's head during history class right before you transferred."

"I see."

"This is a _classroom_, not a circus," their poor, put-upon teacher finally manages to interject. "If you're quite finished with your entertainment, we can continue with the class business."

"Sorry, sensei!" He doesn't hear Kuroba's voice in the chorused apology, but instead the other teen offers Kuroyama-sensei a conjured long-stem rose and a charming smile before returning to his seat. Against all logic, the woman smiles in a manner consistent with blushing and all seems forgiven.

Except his hair is still green. Blast.

* * *

It's a relief to be able to listen to the teachers and ignore almost everything else for the rest of the morning. By restricting the _pulse_ for the writing on the board, it's possible to pretend no one is sneaking glances over and that his hair is its typical brownish blond. Class breaks require more concentration, however, as Keiko and a few others ask what it's like to be colourblind and how it happened.

Brush them off with calculated carelessness, downplaying any sense of difference that tries to linger. Phrases like "It was a long time ago" and "I hardly remember anything else" are priceless for their bland neutrality. The less amount of furor the admission can draw, the better.

The lunch bell heralds escape outside to the perch of a tree, to eat in peace. Aoko and Keiko invite him to join their company, but the need for solitude, out of reach of rumourmongers, is a practically tangible object. Of course, school gossip will run at full throttle and have him rumoured to be flat-out legally blind by the end of lunch. Most likely, it will take the rest of the week for his immediate classmates to correct the misinformation with the truth even though his behaviour clearly contradicts the rumour.

For a given value of truth.

While stretching out for a brief nap, his mobile rings—Baaya's ring tone, at that, and she's not one who would call during school hours unless it's important.

"Hakuba here."

The greeting is leftover from the days when answering Eric's mobile occurred almost as often as answering his own. Since either sweet-talking a girl or sabotaging Eric's relationships is undesirable, it's old habit to self-identify upon answering the phone and resort to other methods for the brotherly duty of twitting Eric.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Saguru-botchama, but an urgent request arrived for you from England earlier this morning. A Madam Eastley received a death threat this past evening. The police have promised to do their best, but she is not satisfied with leaving it at that. She heard what you did for Mr. Swanson, and offered both one and a half times your typical consulting fee and to include travel costs in your expenses."

…She must be truly worried. Travel between Tokyo and England, even one-way, is extraordinarily expensive on short notice.

Calculate the costs and benefits of taking the case. Returning to England is already scheduled for next Friday, when the term ends, because his presence is promised at Aidan's birthday is at the end of March. Even plane rides are infinitely preferable to disappointing little brothers. Going now will skip out on the last week of classes, but… everything they're covering now Professor Sandoval went over months ago, not counting Japanese History where he's simply hopelessly _lost_, and the end of term ceremony is one it won't hurt to miss.

His latest case concluded the day before yesterday… and while Kid's latest heist notice was reported early this morning, the heist time is tomorrow night. Facing off against Kid with only 24 hours to prepare in such an open venue as the bloody clock tower across from the Police Station risks something occurring that can't be safely tracked unnoticed by bystanders—and after this morning, taking more risks than necessary is out for the moment. Kid is almost certain to be available to chase at leisure until the opportune moment to catch him appears.

"Saguru-botchama?"

"Ahh… Please make arrangements for the next available flight. I'll contact her for details once the time difference is acceptable."

"Of course. I'll pick you up when your classes finish, or call again if the first available flight leaves before 19:00."

"Thank you. If you could inform father and grandfather as well, I'll speak with mother myself."

"Certainly. She'll be glad to hear from you."

"Oh, and I'll need a bottle of hair bleach and time enough to use it before the flight, as well."

The rise of her eyebrows is practically audible. "Dare I ask?"

"I was assaulted by a rogue classmate this morning."

"Oh, the indigenous life of public education is a wild and dangerous lot, I understand."

There is no reason to hide an amused smile. "Quite so. As I've been told my hair defies description, I'll leave your imagination free reign until then."

"I'm afraid I have no imagination, but I appreciate the thought."

The smile softens. "Haven't you, then? It only required one accidental demonstration for you to believe in my… ability."

"Well… perhaps a smidgen, when it comes to you three."

"Of course. I'll tell mother you say hello."

When the call ends, checking the pocketwatch confirms that only five more minutes remain for lunch, not enough time to nap. And everyone in England will be sound asleep so early in the morning.

Don't sigh. It's a bad habit to start, no matter how nice it would be to hear Eric's voice right now. It's easy to imagine the response to hearing, 'I have a case and I'm coming home early. And my hair is green.'

'_They obviously bought the excuse if you're not adding "for good", but who do I need to prank for your hair?'_

The thought of collaborating with Eric on some form of retaliation is rather cheering, really. Maybe the green hair will help his harmless reputation, but the risks and revelations were too great to want to let it simply slide. The prospect of plotting brings him back to the classroom with a slight smile on his face.

"Did something happen during lunch, Hakuba-kun?" Keiko asks. "You seem happy."

"You could say that…" Orienting towards the desk rather than look through her, a _pulse_ finds that it obligingly has a paper bear on it that wasn't there before. For some reason, Kuroba folds his side of their puzzle-exchanges into origami, so that first he has to work out how to unfold the bloody things without ripping them before he can even access the written challenges. He refuses to comment on it, but between a horse, a cat, a bear, and green hair, he's seriously considering writing the next riddle in _cipher_.

At least it will be a welcome distraction while on the plane. Carefully flatten and slip it inside the history textbook while explaining, "I received a call regarding an urgent case in England, actually. I'm afraid I'll be leaving tonight and won't return until the new term begins."

_Pulse._

The surrounding faces look disappointed, even Aoko's. Perhaps absence might work in his favor… but he won't hold his breath.

"Why so long, Hakuba-kun? What about the heist tomorrow night?" For some reason, thoughts of the clock tower add an almost melancholy undertone to her voice. "Don't you want to protect it?"

Perhaps the clock holds some significance for her. Blast, he already took the case and can't afford to back out. "I would never back down from a challenge from Kid if your father weren't already on the case to thwart him, Aoko-kun."

That's a lie, cynicism whispers as she smiles. A dangerous criminal will always have priority over a pacifist thief.

"I wouldn't normally be so long in England, but I have business there that will detain me through the beginning of April."

Aidan is hardly a secret—anyone with an internet connection can easily find knowledge of the family, and their birthdays. (Eric laughed himself sick when they discovered the first Hakuba Saguru fansite, at least until they found that the forums had an entire section dedicated to _him_.) After this morning, however, any further personal revelation holds little appeal. They're going to speculate to high heaven about the 'acquired' aspect of his colourblindness anyway, so why not leave another avenue for the gossips to exhaust themselves on while he's gone?

"Oh… But you will be coming back for sure, right?" Keiko asks. "Don't let Kuroba-kun get to you, he's like that to everyone."

The truth of that statement is easily apparent, given the confetti-size shamrock shape in several girls' hair and pale outline of what must be stickers on the skin and clothes of multiple boys.

"I assure you, Keiko-kun, Kuroba-kun has no bearing on my precipitous leave. Death threat cases have something of a deadline." The chance to step back and think rationally about the entire situation is merely a bonus.

Kuroba is so busy accosting the math teacher for wearing no green that he doesn't appear to have heard.

* * *

Next time: England awaits. Please review!

Ocianne

8/10


	7. Orange

Disclaimer: DC/MK characters belong to Gosho Aoyama. Various minor OCs in England belong to themselves. Beware, heavy doses of fluff and waff ahead!

* * *

Shades of Grey: Orange

* * *

_Tuesday, 17 March. 16:15:04._

Of all the roles Baaya plays as personal assistant, chauffeur is possibly the one appreciated most. After a long day concentrating on too many things at once, the respite from an hour long trek using public transportation is a godsend. His appreciation cannot be dampened even by the fact that when he slips into the passenger seat today, she does not entirely suppress a smile at his hair. At least she's left the convertible top up in anticipation of hiding the colour from the general public, and the windows cracked in deference to his dislike of being fully enclosed inside anything smaller than a large room.

"I see my imagination is quite inadequate once again."

Smile rather than sigh. "How bad is it? I didn't inquire into the exact shade."

"It wouldn't have done much good if you had. You're striped, my boy."

"Oh, God." No wonder Keiko offered a mirror. And while neither mortified blushing nor slouching in one's seat are dignified, it's hard to care when no one but Baaya is present to see. "If any pictures somehow make their way to Eric, my vengeance will be swift."

She laughs, albeit kindly. The woman who cleaned up the food fights of their first four joint birthdays while mother took pictures of the evidence has earned the right to a bit of light teasing.

Baaya continues, "Well, I daresay the bleach will work just as well on orange as green. It's waiting for you at the house; you'll have an hour before we should leave for the airport. Your ticket is in the overnight bag on your bed, and Eric-botchama will receive no pictures from me."

"Thank you, Baaya. You're an angel."

"Nothing wrong with a picture for my own scrapbook, of course…"

Facepalming is, in this instance, necessary. He could forbid pictures altogether, but she does so much for him—relocating around the world for a third time and keeping the whole house besides father in the dark, just for starters—that he really doesn't have the heart.

"I'll take solace in the knowledge that Eric has no access to it, then."

The rest of the car ride passes quickly, and he makes a beeline from the garage to the house proper. Since Baaya insists on a light dinner first, it takes nearly the full hour before his hair is bleached and then re-dyed to what she declares is his typical blond-brown shade.

"You look quite presentable, Saguru-kun."

"I'm not wearing a shirt, Baaya." None of them are old or casual enough to risk around bleach. The one pair of blue jeans brought over from England remains so otherwise neglected that a stray drop won't matter.

"That's not presentable?"

"Baaya!"

* * *

Teasing aside, Baaya is entirely professional when it comes to preparing for a trip. There are even two small tubes with discreet labeling in concave Braille tucked into the travel bag's outside pocket: one labeled 'migraine', and one labeled 'plane'. He takes two of the latter once boarding is about to begin, because being unconscious for at least half of the twelve hour flight is preferable to any alternatives, even if the plane will be landing close to midnight local time.

The late landing is why as of yet only Madam Eastley has received a phone call, to arrange a meeting tomorrow, even after everyone at home should be awake. If they knew about the flight, Mother and Eric would show up at the airport regardless of the time, but there's no need for them to lose the sleep on a weeknight when he's perfectly capable of taking a taxi from the airport.

Though he may not be precisely polite to the cabbie at that point.

The plan actually works—with the exception of Kid, they usually do—and by the time the plane is taxiing down the runway for takeoff, he is dead to the world. However, the regrettable side effect of success is waking up five hours outside of Heathrow so wide-awake that nothing will change it.

Luckily, he travels prepared. Unluckily, his brain always goes from 0 to 100 kilometres per hour directly upon rousing, and it's very difficult to make it change tracks once a train of logic has begun. As case in point, the waking thought processes immediately latch onto how yesterday morning could have easily ruined everything, with only sheer luck letting it end otherwise, and said mind will neither silence nor be distracted in its ruminating.

Fishing the origami bear out of the Japanese history book (the other textbooks are safe at home, but this one needs as much study time as possible) merely serves to remind that the entire situation is self-inflicted. Interacting with Kuroba is a double-edged sword, and willful ignorance of the warning signs brought that realisation about nearly too late. And for what? A _challenge._

He should have known that attempting to recreate his battle of wits with Eric was asking for trouble. Excusing it as assessing Kuroba's capabilities ignores that there are safer methods for that than a flat-out public competition. Not to mention that Kid is proving to require more effort than originally anticipated, just to keep up. Between Kid and more mundane cases—and how can he say no to a client truly in need?—there's more than enough fodder to stay sharp without Kuroba complicating things.

Perhaps damage control will be feasible. Kuroba doesn't seem to have the attention span God gave a ferret unless it comes to pranks, Aoko, or Kid. If he stops being remarkable—stops the puzzle-exchange, tones down his interest in Aoko, declines more lunchtime invitations—the amateur magician and professional prankster may move on to a new target before his attentions can out the secret and ruin all the work already put into it.

It's worth a try, at any rate; better to deny curiosity than risk being exposed. He'll implement it at the beginning of the new term. There's even a slim chance that some less than perfect test scores will place him in a different class than Kuroba's come April. Beyond history, he still needs to brush up on academic-level Japanese proficiency, and increase edge-stamina further to avoid migraines.

However, given typical luck… it's not going to happen.

When it registers that one hand has begun absently massaging around the eyes, move and pick up the bear instead. Though not reciprocating with a new puzzle, the last such one received from Kuroba deserves to be solved, at least. If the infuriating thing will ever unfold, first.

And the animal has no eyes to stare with, so there's no logical reason why it seems to be giving off a reproachful look. He turns the featureless paper face away regardless, until he can work out how to deconstruct it.

He's always been good at taking things apart. He wouldn't be a reputable detective, otherwise.

* * *

_Wednesday, 18 March. 01:20:50_

Between Kuroba's logic puzzle and the _Hound of the Baskerville's_ audiobook on his mp3 player, the plane ride ends relatively soon. Navigating Heathrow Airport is blessedly simple at the midnight hour, and not even Customs can create too long of a delay. Contrary to previous prediction, the thought of being home makes interaction with the cabbie quite cheerful, and the drive into Mary-le-bone speeds by with pleasant enough chatter.

Once dropped off at the house's front gates, the entrance code and short walk to the front door are easily accomplished despite thick fog. Retrieving the house key and slipping inside takes another moment, but more care to ensure that the heavy oak door closes noiselessly. Shucking coat and shoes in the entry porch is similarly hushed; the entire point of this exercise is to not wake the sleeping residents, after all. Even if the bedrooms are all as far from the front door as is architecturally possible.

There is no need for a pulse, here; Mrs. Baker would never dream of cluttering the grand open space of the main entry, and he knows the steps to his room upstairs by heart. The faint crackle of flame in the long gallery's fireplaces—even in March, no central heating makes the house freezing at night otherwise—at the top of the stairs is plenty welcome home. And there's a portable heater in the bedroom, which will be warm en—

"Niichan!" Twenty kilograms of little brother up _hours_ past bedtime knocks into his legs with staggering momentum.

"Wha…" Let the legs buckle to preclude falling over backwards, sitting amidst laughter from Eric and Mother across the hall. Aidan instantly claims his lap, pyjama flannel-clad arms locking like steel bands around his neck since the torso is off-limits for hugging tight.

"Welcome home!" _Pulse_ reveals Aidan's beaming face, with Eric and Mother also smiling as they leave the armchairs that frame the middle fireplace.

"I… but…" Surprise does nothing to prevent a delighted grin from spreading, even as realisation dawns of who the culprit behind this ambush must be. "I suppose Baaya called you anyway?"

"Of course she did, little brother." Eric ruffles his hair before joining the hug, one arm wrapping possessively around each of them. "We couldn't let your first arrival home pass unacknowledged."

Lean back and revel in their undemanding presence, letting Eric hold their trio upright. A moment later he buries his nose in Aidan's mop of wavy curls, soap intermingling with Eric's faded sandalwood cologne and wood smoke. "You could have, but I'm glad you didn't."

He'll definitely thank Baaya on his return with some Rococo chocolates from High Street.

"Of course!" Aidan giggles at the brush of his nose and snuggles closer. "We missed you."

"I missed you too, gremlin." Smile still spreading, raise one arm toward Mother, who has been waiting patiently for a greeting. "It's good to see you."

For a given value of 'see', of course, but social niceties are biased toward the sighted.

Her hand, soft and delicate, takes his, and a kiss presses gently against the top of his head. She smells of rose petals and ink and peppermint tea. "Welcome home."

"Thank you. I suppose Grandmother is already asleep?"

"Yes, one of the charities has a committee meeting early tomorrow, but she gives her love and will greet you properly afterward."

"At a proper time," Eric falsettos, earning more muted laughter.

"Now, Eric…" Mother admonishes, but with rueful humour.

"I speak only the truth, Mother dear." Ah, yes, innocence personified. And Keiko wonders how he always knows when a Kuroba-prank has been set in motion, even before the results manifest.

His sarcastic snort is echoed by a yawn from Aidan as adrenaline fades away, slipping arms from around his neck and curling against his chest with a sleepy murmur. He tucks Aidan more securely against him and keeps his voice low, but doesn't bother whispering. Aidan has always liked hearing the muted rumble of speech via ribcage, even as an infant.

"Your version of it, at least. I distinctly recall claims of a three-legged pirate riding a centaur as an explanation for why the pantry was devoid of chocolate biscuits when we were eight."

"I was framed, I say. The dastard also stole the milk jug."

"After we stole it first. I thought Mrs. Baker was going to faint when she caught us and you whipped up that tale, she was laughing so hard."

"Ah, but you were the one who told Professor Aberdeen that Sherlock Holmes confiscated our homework as evidence."

"I know. I should have gone with Inspector Lestrade, but I suppose I'm a purist."

"My aspiring thespians." Mother's hand caresses the side of his face, a fond gesture so familiar he doesn't need vision to know that her other is mirroring the action with Eric. Her dry amusement leaves no question as to the source behind their mutual sense of humour.

"We aim to please." Eric mirrors the response perfectly, unintended, and they promptly dissolve into snickers. The line is forever doomed to invoke flashbacks of the ill-fated two-boy-and-three-pet play performed for the house staff when they were nine. Grandmother's horrified shriek upon walking in on the final curtain call, complete with tomato-pasted sheet-togas and flour dusting half the living room's surfaces, had been met with twin bows and the same brazen line, albeit delivered with more bravado and less humour.

Mother missed the whole affair, but heard enough retellings from all involved that she also chuckles at the memory. "Perhaps I should revise that to 'my little terrors'."

"Not so little any more—that's reserved for our apprentice," he answers, running a gentle hand across Aidan's face. Without anticipation acting as a bolster, the battle for wakefulness has been lost, and Aidan is still young enough to sleep like a log. He can't complain at the dead weight, however. Only when Aidan falls asleep is there a chance to anchor into sense-memory the warm reality beneath his little brother's appearance. Aidan knows that he sees things differently from the rest of them, but almost six is still too young for a secret as big as the full truth.

"Of course; I do apologise for my mistake. My _teenage_ terrors."

"And all the more frightening for it." Eric is grinning. But then, so is he.

"So you are. I'm afraid I have a meeting tomorrow myself, and should turn in… I won't tell you to go to bed, but don't forget you still have school in the morning, Eric."

"It won't be the first time I've stayed up late."

"No, nor the first time you've 'mysteriously' overslept." Her tone is too fond for it to be a true reprimand. "I'll trust you to see Aidan to bed, as well. Pleasant dreams."

They return the sentiment together, and her soft footfalls fade into the far side of the house. Eric's arm shifts to ruffle the hair on the base of his neck. "Come on, let's get to your room. This rug isn't thick enough to do my bruises any favors."

He almost protests, more comfortable now than he's been for weeks despite the hardwood floor hiding beneath the hall rug, but nods instead. For Eric to be sore enough to complain, there must be a lot of them. "Practice, or a game? I know you had one Saturday…"

"The game." Eric's tone as he takes possession of the travel bag is full of manly pride. "We won, even though Will sprained his arm during a scrum and Cecil had to take over as flyhalf, and then Terry twisted his ankle with thirty seconds to go in the second half." Insane, manly pride.

"If there's anything I'm grateful I can't see," he announces blandly as they stand together, "it's your rugger games."

"Hey, it's no more dangerous than going after a suspect with only each other as backup."

"Baka." He's heard Aoko and Kaito's arguments too many times; switching from English just long enough to use the more fitting Japanese insult is almost automatic. "If a suspect tried to attack us, I'd crunch the weapon or throw him into the wall first."

All other concerns about using edge aside, it can't be justified when the people bent on beating Eric up are peers, and technically within their rights for the game.

An added rustle of cloth beyond their walking movements suggests a shrug from Eric. "Card-carrying adrenaline junkie, remember? You made the card yourself."

Eric's last comment is a deliberate, obvious ploy of distraction, but it works. The small piece of cardboard had been the first completed project that resulted from six months fighting with a Braille keyboard, voice recognition software, and text-to-speech software, because he'll be damned before he gives up using a computer simply because the bloody screen is a flat white square. The reminiscently triumphant smile spreading across his face is justified. Really.

"I remember."

Eric squeezes his shoulder at the satisfied tone, and then the door to the right opens just as instinct pipes up that they've walked the requisite number of steps from the stairs to reach his room.

"Anyway, you're lucky Baaya called ahead, otherwise John wouldn't have known to give you a fire." Sure enough, the heat and crackle from the fireplace on the far side of the room is unmistakable as they enter, though stronger than it should be for so late at night.

"Which you bolstered?" No wonder Eric smells of wood smoke.

"I had some firewood left over after refueling the one in the long gallery we were using, and thought I might as well."

"Thank you." The heater would have been sufficient, but the sound of wood burning is far more soothing than a mechanical whirr. He juggles Aidan in his arms, pulling back the covers and tucking him snugly beneath the blankets. Aidan mumbles in sleepy protest, shifting a few times in reaction to the colder environment, before subsiding.

Technically, they could have walked the additional five strides to Aidan's room and settled him into the smaller bed there. However, this bed is plenty large enough for one full and one miniature-size person, and Aidan seems to have missed him enough that complaints about dignity aren't likely to crop up come morning.

"So how was your flight?" Eric's voice asks from his desk, small swift thunks denoting the unpacking of what in the travel bag isn't a spare change of clothes. "Baaya mentioned you had a case, but you can catch me up on that tomorr—Hey, what's this?" A crinkle of paper. "…Bloody hell, just reading this makes my brain hurt. Give me cryptography any day. From your crazy classmate?"

"Well, Kid is hardly is hardly going to sign a puzzle with a black feather, is he?" Eric has heard about Kuroba (and, to be fair, Aoko and Koizumi) at length, including about various pranks and the puzzle-war. There hasn't been a full account of the puzzles' content before now, however. More than one have been visual puzzles, and others a matter of manipulating half a dozen physical or temporal variables to reach a designated outcome—neither of which Eric usually finds interesting enough to try to solve.

To be fair, Eric's lack of interest means _he_ hasn't had as much practice as he'd like in Kuroba's preferred word-and-mind-games, but he's certainly gotten faster than he was. Perhaps he'll see about finding a book of classical Japanese riddles once he returns, even though anything written will lack the various twists Kuroba seems to enjoy adding to the originals.

"From how you've described Kid, I wouldn't put anything past him, little brother. So what's the answer?"

He grins out of habit, deceptively light. "I think I'll place it under our own game-rules. No answers given until a week without success."

"…Saguru?" Something in his voice must have betrayed him anyway; setting the paper on the desk with another crinkle, Eric closes the distance between them and lays a hand on his arm. "What's wrong?"

Breathe in, and exhale, long and slow. "I'm not going to reciprocate this time. Kuroba dyed my hair for St. Patrick's Day."

Eric's sharp intake of breath confirms that no further explanation is needed.

"I'd enjoy your help plotting a reprisal for the hair, but subtle enough he can't pin it on me. If he keeps looking closely enough… he's _sharp_. Smarter than I'd originally thought, even already knowing it was more than what he pretends."

He needs to stop standing still, to move, and steps around Eric to retrieve pyjamas and change while explaining the entirety of his train of thought. Eric, thankfully, listens in the attentive way he's so good at, and doesn't interrupt.

"Well…" Eric says at last, when the torrent of words subsides and he heads to brush his teeth and remove the blue contacts that have been worn for far too long already. "It's surprising that it came up so quickly, but it should blow over soon enough. I guess if you want to pull out of the spotlight a little"—the tone implies that Eric doesn't entirely think that plan is a good idea, but won't say so aloud—"my only advice would be to not do it all at once, otherwise you're just going to make Kuroba more curious about the change in behaviour."

"Mmph." His mouth is full of toothpaste. Eric still understands the general feeling.

"Pick one, and start there. Maybe the obvious interest in Aoko, since you've mentioned that Kuroba does, at times, actually seem interested in her, or at least holds himself in the protective big brother role. Both of which require excruciating examination of all potential friends, allies, and significant others."

Eric adds with shameless amusement in response to his quirked eyebrow, "The only reason your social life is exempted right now is because Mother won't stand for a mid-term vacation on my part."

"Hrmn." Still toothpaste, but an additional eye-roll conveys fond exasperation well enough. Eric snickers, but lets him think about the advice in silence as he finishes brushing. It's good advice, including which direction to tackle first.

And it leaves the riddles, just for a little longer. That can be toned down by extending the length of time to respond with answer-and-new-riddle, as well.

"All right, then," he acknowledges after finishing his ablutions. "I'll do that."

"Good." Eric paces him from the bathroom doorway back to the bed, sitting on the edge as well. "…And you know I'll still transfer in a heartbeat, right?"

The spontaneous smile is warm and fond. "I know. Which is part of why you don't need to, especially still so soon, and when Aidan needs you."

_He_ doesn't _need_, and still craves the independence more than Eric's company for the moment. Maybe it was a close call, and there's still the chance to completely screw everything up in Japan… but it still _hasn't_ happened, yet.

"Fine, fine… But it's still my job to look out for you, too." A hand catches his—gently, Eric has always been good at knowing how much pressure he can comfortably stand—and pulls it to rest against Eric's face. He can feel the smile, warm pressure against his fingertips… "Just in case your memory's getting fuzzy."

"You…" He pauses, as the hypersensitive pads of skin catalog what _should_ be present but isn't. "Did you _shave_ tonight?"

Eric laughs, face free of the pale patches of stubble almost invisible to the naked eye but that rub gratingly to the touch. "Of course; I knew you were coming."

And one of the concerns Eric had initially raised about this whole scheme was how little physical contact was culturally acceptable in Japan, when the Harcourt nuclear family had adapted to match his shift in primary sense and went beyond what was typical even for close family in England.

Trust Eric to think of everything. Chuckle with a rueful headshake, and let fingers roam from forehead to chin, cataloguing _warmth_ and _pulse _and _alive_ with every angle of cheekbone, the infinitesimally slimmer nose blade, the steady thrum of blood-under-skin.

Smile, hindbrain finally satisfied by the thorough reminder. "Thank you."

"What are older brothers for? Don't answer that," Eric adds quickly.

Some instructions are meant to be ignored. "Hm, teasing, blackmail, general terrorising…"

Eric cuffs him lightly above the ear. "Traitor. Keep it up and I won't tell you what I scored for us to go to next weekend…"

"Next weekend? Wait…" Eyes widen, counterpoint to a disbelieving grin. "You didn't. Registration for it's been closed for months…"

"_I_," Eric gestures grandly, hand sweeping close enough to his face for him to feel the displaced air, "am very sneaky. And I knew you would be back at least the weekend before Aidan's birthday. I've been planning the surprise since November, thank you."

"You can think that far ahead?" He ducks this retaliatory swipe with a cheeky smirk.

"I should take Lonny instead of you," Eric threatens, but there's no bite to it.

"Lonny prefers talking to engines over people. He'd be bored to tears at an Abnormal Psychology Forum. If that _is_ what you're talking about and not having me on…"

"Attendance for both days, all ours. I got the packets a week and a half ago."

To a normal person, the thought of spending two days listening to lectures on the ways the human mind can malfunction would not be a prospect worthy of quiet glee. As it is, the grin is threatening to split his face in half. "I owe you one, Niisan. Or possibly two or three."

"I'm sure you'll think of some way to even it up. You always do." Eric abruptly yawns. "Bother. Mother will kill me if I oversleep tomorrow after staying up late."

"So go to bed. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yes, mother." Eric dodges his hand. "I'll catch up with you after school… just don't get into trouble without me."

"How could I let you miss out on the fun?"

Another chuckle, and a brief hug around his shoulders, and then Eric ghosts out of the room. He slides into bed, pulling Aidan along into the cocoon of warmth.

Relax.

This time, it's easy. Sleep claims him.

* * *

AN: Qualifying Exams and then loads of grad units nearly snuffed the inspiration for this one. Please thank the plotbunnies for continuing on anyway and leave a review.

Next time: A certain psychology conference in England leads to meeting a certain OC C.S.I. psychologist outside of his natural habitat…


	8. Gold

Shades of Grey: Gold

* * *

_Friday, 27 March. 17:25:17_

"So as we can see, these theories of profiling the psychologically disturbed remain sound, and it is quite unfortunate that law enforcement does not take advantage of these principles to a greater extent…"

Don't walk out. It leaves a bad impression, and a face four decades younger than half the attendees is memorable. Focus on the time, solid comfort of hour-minute-second hands. Four minutes and thirty-one seconds until the conference ends for the day. Don't focus on how theory is all well and good, but the thing about sociopaths and serial killers is that a broken mind refuses to follow patterns of logic, even a logic of snapped gears and twisted springs—

Stop. Take a deep breath. Remember that is presenter is, objectively, an intelligent man, even if he has no concept of a printed handout to go with a countourless powerpoint presentation, or how to talk without going off on tangents every five minutes. The man simply hasn't had the opportunity to see theory put into practice. Or at very least, has dismissed any of the police studies of correlations between this method of profiling of any true specificity and its match to targets who were caught, let alone the ones who _still got away..._

A hand squeezes his left shoulder. Eric.

...Oops. Apparently the mental complaints progressed unnoticed to a sub-vocal mutter.

Flash an apologetic smile and subside. Eric's areas of expertise lie outside psychology, but he finds the subject interesting enough to be here and will listen to whatever half-rant this afternoon inspired after the lecture. It's quite feasible to behave until then. Another shoulder-squeeze accompanies a nearly inaudible snicker, and Eric's hand withdraws, followed by the unmistakable sound of doodling.

…Doodling with a ballpoint pen should not be recognisable by sound within three pen strokes. This is all Kuroba's fault.

Though when you get right down to it, it's more amusing than anything else.

Polite applause reverberates; the session is over. As it begins to fade, stand and turn and open the door out in one smooth motion, an opportunity granted by sitting in the last row at the centre aisle's edge. _Pulse_ in the atrium reveals other doors in the conference centre's hall opening, but the primary mob of attendees will bottleneck and jostle safely behind them, especially since most will opt to eat the overpriced dinners offered indoors rather than hurry into the sporadic rain showers outside.

Slip sunglasses on and turn up the coat collar as they step outside, but the sensation of faint drizzle on an upturned face is more pleasant than anything else.

A click and _whoomph_ to the right, Eric opening an umbrella. "All right, how bad was he, really?"

"I need a pool table."

"Ouch," is the amused reply, and sight is unnecessary to know that Eric is grinning. "Sounds like fun. The Bronze Star on the corner hasn't kicked us out before, has it?"

"No, that was The Bronze Boar across town. Which was entirely your fault, you know; the man's friends wouldn't have objected so pointedly to him losing if your side bets hadn't nearly cleaned them all out in one go."

"They knew the risks, and I didn't hear you objecting at the time..." An arm slings over his shoulder, the wide umbrella easily covering them both. "Also, getting sick the weekend before Aidan's party is forbidden."

Snicker faintly and let Eric lead the way around the pavement's puddles. "I was far too busy enjoying myself. I think I can survive two minutes of misting, but if you insist."

"I'm taking no chances. You sick will make Aidan sick from simple close proximity, and he's been looking forward to his first game of laser tag for months."

"All right, all right, I surrender."

"As you should."

"Of course, being now five steps from the door and thus under an awning renders your argument moot…"

"Prat." Eric's tone is fond as the umbrella vanishes, closing squeaks almost drowned out by the groan of the pub's heavy oak door.

"It takes one to know one. Order me something to go, will you? Just in case they take offense again."

"Aye, captain."

Snort and knock him lightly in the shoulder, then _pulse_ and _hold _to navigate through the lunchtime crowd to the two pool tables in the back, sunglasses tucked safely back into their pocket. Eric didn't warn about the lighting, so it should be dim enough that half-lidded eyes can cover for the lack of focused gaze. A knot of working class dominate the small area, shooting the breeze together, rough and solid and proud of it. (Given a false nose, the right coat, and some grime, blending in would be easy, but what's the point of blending when all you want to do is thoroughly trounce someone?)

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. Who of you lot is man enough for a proper opponent?"

"Piss off, pretty boy." Secondhand smoke fills the air; don't give him the satisfaction of a cough. A sardonic eyebrow should get a much better response, even if no one here likely knows how to define 'sardonic'.

"How original. Do you often hide behind complimentary insults to avoid a challenge?"

A derogatory laugh. "You're no challenge, kid. You ain't even old enough to drink."

"Buy, no; drink, yes, but only if it's worth imbibing. Certainly old enough to beat your pants off in a friendly game." Grin, only a little deviously. "How about if I lose, I buy you and your fine, upsta—er, slightly leaning friends another round of pints?"

Now is the time to smirk, the triumphant little expression reined back so many times in Japan. Allow an extra edge of smugness to leak through, because if baiting a crass idiot isn't the time to look like an insufferable little bastard, when is?

"And whadda _you_ want, nancy-boy?" Hmm, apparently more crass than idiot. Not that it matters.

"If I win? You and your cohorts can pay out the equivalent of said round of drinks. Say, twenty pounds."

A contemptuous snort, and smoke fills the air again. "You're on. 'Ere, Tom, give us the table. We'll finish later."

The table is reset with clicks and thunks, plastic against plastic and cloth-on-wood. Encroaching sweat and a breath of moving air warn to pulse just in time to find a cue stick being held out by the other player.

"Better give us a good show after all that bloody cheek, lad."

Take the cue stick and smile, eyes curving further shut. "But of course. World Rules? And as the challenger, I'll yield the first turn."

Someone laughs. "You're gonna regret that. Mick's no pushover."

Another adds, "Ten quid says he beats the kid by five balls," sparking side-bets in earnest as another _pulse_ and _hold_ reveals the table in bone-white clarity and Mick lining up with the pyramid to take the break shot.

Footsteps approach from the direction of the bar. "Thirty pounds says my brother wins inside of two visits to the table."

Incredulous laughter and whistles resound, two or three voices taking Eric's bet, but then the cue ball moves and there's no concentration to spare for listening. _Hold _the table instead, dome of pressure light enough to not interfere with natural velocity, pressure enough to simultaneously track the trajectories of sixteen white balls careening around the table. Here is where eidetic memory and long, long hours of practice come into play, differentiating yellow from red and the eight ball's black by their original positions in the rack setup.

Mick's skills are not wholly exaggerated. The apex ball (_red_) is potted straight off, and then another two follow it before his opponent finally misses.

Eight balls to pot in two turns. This _is_ going to be _fun._

* * *

_16:47:51._

It's a good thing Eric always makes bets with some leeway for human error. Five successful pockets into a run-out, a swerve shot clips the sixth ball a degree or two off angle. Rather than a clean pot, it catches on the pocket's knuckles, bouncing between a few times, before settling just on the edge as an incomplete shot.

Hold the pulse unmoving. Edge is _not_ to interfere in any proper game, especially not with money riding on the outcome. Either the bet is won fairly, or not at all.

"Tough luck, kid," one of the betting men calls, with a few others adding more derogatory comments.

Smile, revealing nothing. Two more red balls are potted but the third goes wide, earning a rough curse before access to the table is relinquished with poor grace.

"Last chance to keep from losing big, boyo."

"Why thank you, I'd somehow inexplicably lost track of the obvious."

"Why, I oughta—"

Wave a dismissive hand, answering, "After I divest you of your wages, please," and wonder idly if stark white is hiding shades of red or purple. Eric is fighting to not snicker, so perhaps.

The next two strokes go smoothly, but as the cue ball rolls to a stop for the final shot, whoops of laughter surround the table.

"Jig's up, you little bastard," Mick crows. "T'ain't no way you can make that shot."

The straight shot is for the right middle pocket, but the result of Mick's previous wide shot neatly blocks the mouth. Potting an opponent's ball, even incidental to a shot, is a foul, and fouling on the eight ball is an instant loss. Even for a swerve shot at the corner pocket, the cue ball's trajectory has a 98% chance of knocking the red ball in. And a kick shot will require a _precise_ amount of force to sink the ball rather than causing a rebound out of the pocket, while still leaving the cue ball with enough power to touch the side of the table after.

…Oh, why not. "Would you care to prove your certainty with another bet, friend?"

Mick sputters amidst more snorts of disbelief from the audience. "I've got a tenner that says you can't!"

"Done!" Smile pleasantly and turn; exhale and line up the shot. Ignore the jeers about aim as the cue stick levels to shoot almost perpendicular to the eight ball. Ignore Eric snapping up the second round of side bets, voice cheerfully goading.

Ignore the memory of pulse-scattered balls on felt, fine control undeveloped to touch without movement; of simple shots missed over and over by unwieldy cue sticks and ruined stamina; of choking on game-winning shots and being forced to part with both pride and hard-earned money.

This shot is not easy, even with a few thousand hours of practice collected in the past six years. But it's not impossible, either, and by God will it be _satisfying_ if it goes right_._

Breathe. Focus, gauging the movement necessary for a smooth stroke with the proper force.

Take the shot. Feel the ball move, like the current-ripple of a fish swimming close by, and watch with bated breath (Help, Kuroba's punning is contagious) as it bounces and makes contact with a clack and both balls roll apart and—

—success.

Eric whoops in triumph. "Pay up, gentlemen!"

One or two reach for their wallets, but Mick's expression twists in fury. "You're bloody barking mad if you think I'm paying you _anything_, you cheating little shite!"

A left hook punctuates the final word. Pulse blacks out automatically—too many people, too much chance of irreparable damage if multi-tasking triggers a flare—as muscle memory turns the instinctive dodge into an over-the-shoulder throw from his limited Judo repertoire, painstakingly learned through Eric's insistence, modeling, and role as a training dummy.

Blind aim, unfortunately, still needs work, and the muted crash of the body into the pool table is unmistakable.

Particularly when the immediate spate of cursing says as much in three times as many words, ending with, "Git 'im!"

Booted feet to the left and behind. Dodge forward to where memory and sound place a gap in the spectators, face threatening to split with an adrenaline grin. Follow the vibrations of movement and Eric's sporadic Annoying Monologue™ (primary purpose to announce location, secondary advantage of pissing opponents off), and respond accordingly to keep him from being mobbed while hopefully avoiding any lucky shots in the meantime.

…When you get right down to it, half the rush of blindfighting (blindodging, really, but the other sounds better) is the chance of missing something vital and paying for it.

"Hey, watch it!" Not Eric. Wrong direction, deeper voice, and the accent sounds American. Judging by the subsequent crash and curse to the right, a mook in pursuit picked the wrong bystander to take a swing at on the way. (Fight psychology really is fascinating in its own right, even if it's not abnormal psych.)

A yell from in front, dodge the fist passing close enough to feel a breeze and use the momentum to sweep a leg around, foot hooking around the attacker's knee and pulling in one smooth motion until he crashes. More feet on the wood floor; duck to another free area, adrenaline and blood pounding, and grin again at the sounds of Eric and the helpful stranger taking out the remaining three fighters.

_Pulse._

Mick is the last to have gone down, shirt still held in Eric's fist. The others aren't all unconscious, but their expressions reveal second thoughts about getting back up. As for the stranger…

Well. The accent may be American, and he's a good few inches taller and broader than they are, but the facial features are unmistakably Japanese. Perhaps thirty-something, short hair, business casual, and he has a friendly smile. "Go picking bar fights often?"

Eric shifts, and another pulse reveals the rustle of paper to be his checking the state of Mick's wallet, grinning back. "How can you think that of us, sir? All we had in mind was a friendly game."

A snort. "Pull the other one, it's got bells on."

Finger-comb hair into a semblance of neatness. "Only when we need to blow off steam. It was either this or lose my temper at a conference speaker, and I'd rather be able to continue attending tomorrow for the ones who _do_ know what they're talking about."

"Wait, Clarkson?" A laugh. "I felt the exact same way; someone needs to drag half these folks out of the theoretical and into the real world."

"And our friend's wallet has forty pounds, which isn't near what we're owed, but the staff is giving us unpleasant looks," Eric announces abruptly. "Can we buy you dinner to celebrate a kindred spirit and make up for the loss of your drink?"

Movement, probably to grab the coat draped over a chair back. "Sure, why not? I don't set a new record for 'fastest time kicked out of a bar' every day."

"Cheers," Eric replies. "Come on, then, there's a decent-looking café across the street."

Pulse as Eric leads the way to the door, and note a certain conspicuous absence.

"Eric, did you or did you not order food for us?"

"Of course I ordered, but—" the door opens, scents of rain and smog blowing inside, "—your game finished too quickly, and I don't think we'll be getting food or a refund from them any time soon."

Another pulse reveals the pub owner in the act of hanging up the phone, face scrunched in a scowl, while the various patrons' postures express a spectrum between having seen nothing and a willingness to play bouncer if the three of them choose to loiter.

"Right. After you, Mr…"

"Cade Maboroshi," is the answer as they duck outside.

_Pulse_ and _hold_ and slip sunglasses back in place, eyes falling more comfortably closed for the moment while their new acquaintance continues, "But call me Cade or Dr. M, anything else makes me look for my dad."

"Doctor of Psychology?" Eric asks.

"Psychiatry, actually." A chuckle cuts off Eric's automatic apology. "It's an easy mistake, I know. I'm older than I look."

"I walk corrected. No wonder you took offense at Clarkson's spiel. Have you been in London long?"

Pause at the street corner, face turned between Cade and the street while waiting out the rush of cars and exhaust fumes.

"Nah, just visiting." A wry tone colors the reply. "I'm on sanity leave, but like a good little workaholic I'm keeping up in the field for fun."

Smile faintly. "Sanity leave should be mandatory for anyone in your field. If you'll forgive my curiosity, what do you do?"

"I'm a profiler for the Las Vegas PD. Don't tell my boss, but I spend a lot of time playing poker with the night shift while waiting for new information on a case to turn up."

Laugh with Eric as traffic finally changes direction and pedestrians start to cross the street, but before another question comes to mind Cade adds, "What's your story? Taking exception to an academic lecture isn't typical weekend entertainment for your age bracket."

"Oh, the human mind is a hobby—"

"_Obsession_," Eric coughs.

"—thank you, Eric—of mine. I also happen to do consulting detective work, and it always pays to know your full range of possibilities."

"Heh. That's for sure. Do you get a lot of cases?"

Don't bristle. The man sounds genuinely curious, not condescending. As it turns out, there's no need; Eric drops an arm lightly around his shoulders and boasts, "He's made the news at least a dozen times in London, and twice so far in Tokyo."

Cade whistles lowly. "Not bad. What sort of cases do you get?"

"Missing persons, threats, surveillance, embezzlement, theft… occasionally we stumble across a murder."

All but three of the England headlines are from murder cases, in fact. Considered that way, making the news seems less of a thing to take pride in… not compared to finding Jenny for Uncle Andrew when she'd been kidnapped four years ago. Recovering her safely had even been worth the rib-crushing hug of all the strength a sobbing eight-year-old could bring to bear… though it had been _very_ tempting to maim her unsuspecting brother's _idiotic_ supposed friends.

"Murders, at your age? That has got to suck."

Refocus on the present as Cade gets the café door. "You grow accustomed to it, really… One can adjust to anything."

Up to an including two to three cases a week squeezed between academic studies, outside reading, time with family, and physical and sensory exercises. House staff and extended family's gossip about anti-social tendencies be damned—with a schedule packed full as it is, who has time for boring 'socialisation'?

"Doesn't keep it from sucking."

The hair on the back of his head is ruffled by a hand, before Eric follows Cade toward an empty table and replies, "You think it would be better if we didn't find them, and the criminal could get away? The Yard's told us more than once that if Saguru hadn't been there, the bastard would have had time to destroy the evidence and get off scot-free."

"Quite the compliment from the police, and more power to you for catching the murderers. I just hate to see kids run across corpses so young."

Calculate the possible fall of shadows as the sunglasses are safely tucked back away, and sit in the chair most likely to be out of direct light. The laminated placemat-menu is useless as anything more than a pretended focus for the eyes, but Eric considerately debates aloud a few of their preferred meal choices.

He quickly subsides to a more sub-vocal hum of consideration, making it possible to answer Cade. "I'm afraid that would have made no difference, really. Our first encounter wasn't a premeditated murder, but witnessing a hit-and-run when we were nine. The murder magnet didn't seem to kick in until we were thirteen."

After enough time had passed to re-acclimatise to the newly manifested edge, and to be willing to go out places again… Sometimes it almost feels like there could be a connection, but only on the days when the interruptions are particularly unwelcome.

"Mmm."

"But even unasked for it's… satisfying, to find a criminal through evidence and legwork and logic."

Like scratching a deep-seated mental itch. Impossible to explain properly, to someone who doesn't know the thrill of _hunt_ and _catch. _Mother says it's a family trait: why she and Great Aunt Cecilia are falconers, why half the family tree is in law enforcement or civil service of some branch or another… and why, every generation or two, a name is quietly scratched out and never mentioned again except to explain _exactly _why the Harcourt line works for a living despite being well off.

Cade grins. "I know that one. Part of why I'm taking a vacation rather than looking for a new job altogether."

Footsteps and perfume herald the waitress, who steps inside the range of held-pulse to stop by Cade's chair, treating them to a friendly smile and a list of the current specials. Order last, fingers drumming lacquered wood such that the chosen menu item—fish and chips, horribly stereotypical but why fight a good thing?—can't have been accidentally covered by an arm.

As the waitress retreats with the promise of food and drink on their way, Cade leans forward to rest elbows on the table. "So, here's a question. You started that fight—hell, even got a few good licks in, that was a textbook throw—but at the end, you stood back and let me and your brother finish it even though it was three on two. Why?"

Don't freeze. Of _course_ a man in his profession is going to have noticed things most people are too preoccupied to process. Even the timing is admirable for its precise denial of offering excuses or changing the subject. The only way to answer is with some form of the truth.

"It's a bit of a dull story, that one," Eric starts, but from his tone even he recognises that Cade will not be easily snowed.

Pick up the narrative, "Simply put, the nerves in my hands," spread them slightly over the table, keep attention on hands and not the face, "are unnaturally sensitive to kinetic force. Gripping an object or, say, an arm that already expended its energy in a punch, is of no consequence. However, when it comes to taking the initiative with a grab or a punch, the vectors are against me, and I draw the line at enjoying a good fight when an open-hand strike leaves me aching for hours afterward."

"Don't forget swearing like a sailor."

"Very funny; I haven't done that since my first and last closed-fist strike to a punching bag." Words aside, the banter is friendly, intended to be distracting; if Eric were to have other designs, he would have mentioned the scream that had preceded turning the air blue.

There are good reasons why, on days where it's too wet to run frustration out, riding the edge (or reality) of a fight is a method of first resort rather than last.

Cade leans over, trying for a better look. "Huh. Has a doc been able to tell you why?" Close proximity allows _pulse_ to catch the faint swell of cornea over lens, tracking gaze from hands to when Cade glances up with an apologetic smile. "Sorry, not my field of medical expertise, just curiosity."

Flex the fingers, eyes half-focused on their movement. Eric says the skin is close enough in shade and texture again as to be nearly indistinguishable unless someone knows to look for a difference.

"No one gets far in the mental heath field without an abundance of curiosity. But to answer your question, no. They finally settled on idiopathic etiology, and pain medications… don't help." Not as intended, at any rate. Cade shouldn't know him well to have heard the brief hesitation, but best to move on. "So, since you and Eric had things so well in hand, I decided not to interfere."

"It keeps me in good shape for rugby, so I can't complain," Eric chimes in.

"Rugby? No wonder your brother keeps up on abnormal psych, he's got a crazy one in the family."

"Hey, just because your country is a bunch of pansies when it comes to real sports is no reason to call us nutters."

"No, he's right. You _are_ nutters."

"You wound me, little brother."

"They wound you; I merely state the obvious."

"At least I'm not as bad as your thief." Perfect. Kid makes for an excellent distraction.

"True. You haven't stolen any giant clock hands recently." They'd watched the heist together, the four of them, with the others taking turns filling in the details left out by the newscaster commentary. Oddly enough, learning that another teenage detective had shown up to chase—and nearly catch—Kid had incited an uncharacteristic feeling of annoyance. Kid is _his_ thief to chase, puzzle to solve, gateway to a normal life.

…Well, relatively normal. Either way, no one else had better catch him first.

"Who's this, then?"

"An international thief who recently reappeared in Japan after an eight year hiatus. Wears a white suit, cape and top hat, sends the police advance notice of what he plans to steal and when, and manages to get away with it by being a clever bastard and a master of disguise. I've chased him twice so far, and can attest that he has the luck of the devil as well." And the luck of an edge; or perhaps they're the same thing.

Cade's eyes narrow, intrigued. "All white?"

"Except for a red tie and blue shirt and hatband."

"And blue socks," Eric adds with a grin.

"Huh. That's still a lot of white." And while Western culture associates white with innocence and purity, Japan associates white with death and burial shrouds.

"They call him a phantom thief for a reason, I suspect. He plays the part of a ghost quite well." Even if his elbow to the ribs is more than solid enough. It's difficult to say yet whether the white is intended to be significant, or merely flashy, as another tool of misdirection.

"Kaitou?" The accent is flawless; American he may be, but he's definitely bilingual. Interesting.

"Yes, Kaitou Kid is the colloquialism granted by police and his fans."

Cade chuckles. "He has fans? Definitely a 'kaitou', then."

"Mmm, yes. He's not a perfect thief—he doesn't always get his quarry, even if he remains uncaught—but he's a master entertainer."

"Does he have a pattern?"

"Besides the absurd? He previously targeted gems to the exclusion of all else, but since his revival the focus has turned to museum pieces and other oddities. A home run baseball and a jeweled pool cue stick come to mind." Rather like a newly minted protégé still finding his feet… Though Nakamori would have his head if he suggested any such thing.

"He sounds like fun."

"Yes… It's refreshing to chase a criminal who invites people to play a relatively harmless game with him, rather than the alternatives."

"I'll bet. You have relatives in the Tokyo force?" A fair question; private detectives have their place, but an active police investigation is hardly going to welcome someone of his age and gaijin cultural background without some influence. Much as that knowledge might chafe.

"Mmm, our father." No need to advertise father's exact position. Cade's familiarity with Japan means he likely _would_ recognise what position holds the title of Superintendent General of the Tokyo MPD, and adaptation to the implicit culture there means even saying it at all sounds too much like boasting.

"Well, if you ever meet Senjirou Maboroshi from fraud, tell him his nephew says hi."

"I might, in point of fact… personnel for Kid heists tends to be primarily drawn from Division Two, so far as I can tell."

"Makes sense, with their jurisdiction over theft. Departments usually don't like to share much." A chuckle. "I could tell you some stories from Las Vegas…"

"Please do; I'm not as familiar with American law enforcement as I'd like to be."

"I make no promises of being educational, but they tell me that I'm at least entertaining."

As it turns out, he's both. The murder case that included a tarantula getting loose in the crime lab (and another, more vaguely referenced incident involving a rubber hose, a stick insect, and tuning fork) even turns out to have a fraud aspect. Eric takes the association as prime opportunity to regale Cade with the first criminal case they solved together—the result of Eric's challenge to review the summer house's bookkeeping after four months of hearing mother lament the increasing costs of upkeep. The amount of sneaking was hardly secret agent level, though listening to Eric you'd hardly know they difference. But they _did_ collect all the relevant accounting materials under both mother and Mr. Grodin's nose, until they had enough evidence to prove the man had been skimming for nearly five years and only recently become too greedy for his own good.

The story prompts another tale in return, and somehow over the arrival of food the conversation transitions into abnormal psych and prevalent modern theories, with the occasional anecdote slipping in here and there. _Pulse_ holds their small bubble of company below conscious thought, and it's only when the pressure of a building headache becomes noticeable does the realisation of time having passed register.

Read the time, pocket and watch held in pressure, and swear softly. "Eric, we have twenty-two minutes and nineteen seconds to get home."

"What?" Eric's arm shifts, angling wristwatch to visibility. "Bugger, that was a fast three and a half hours."

"Time flies when you're having fun. Curfew?"

"Of sorts. We promised our little brother we'd be home before his bedtime. So we really must go, but it's been a pleasure talking with you…"

"You too. Tell you what, tomorrow I'll track you down and we can snark at the lecturers."

Smirk, as Eric grins and takes care of the check. "Sounds perfect."

Pull out a business card and slide it across the table—enough of Cade's mannerisms are American that he shouldn't consider the informal presentation rude. "Here, in case our appearance isn't distinctive enough to find us in the morning."

"No fear of that." He does have a _meishi_ case, soft leather-texture enclosing hollowed-out wood, and the card disappears into its depths not so far deep into the stack as to appear insulting, nor so shallow as to seem an attempt at flattery rather than honest respect. Two identical cards appear from a different pocket of the case, one to reciprocate and one for Eric. Force the eyes to approximate focus on the familiar lines of occupational and contact information, both English and Japanese sides, then store in the front shirt pocket. Ironically, the proper case for it is safely in Japan, holding the cards of the handful of clients already collected since February.

"Thank you. We'll look forward to tomorrow."

Cade grins and stands with them, donning coat in preparation to brave the elements outside. "As the man said, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. See you then."

Follow Eric outside and hail a cab, cracking the window just enough to let air in without much noticeable rain. Even racing the clock—_eighteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds_—to get home in time, and the headache deciding to make a full appearance, it's only a few minutes before a contented hum commanders his vocal cords to properly express how satisfying today was.

Cloth shifts on leather, Eric's scent strengthening as he leans in closer. "Hah, that _is _the Holmes theme. Good. I'm glad today was a success."

"Yes. Yes, it was." An unbiased mind who knows psychology inside and out to discuss Kid theories with, and after tomorrow the conversation can continue via email, free from concern of hiding edge and eyes from Cade's proven powers of observation.

Life is very good indeed.

* * *

AN: Saguru's pool game in the pub was British-style billiards, also known as blackpool.

_Meishi_ are Japanese business cards, the giving and receiving of which are a matter of formal etiquette and dignity. How you treat the card is indicative of how you perceive the giver. To store one in a wallet or back pocket is insulting, as it may damage, discolor, etc the card.

Many thanks to all the awesome reviewers for last chapter, they definitely helped spark life back into this fic. And so despite real life happening, the bunnies have churned out another chapter for your enjoyment. Please continue to review!


	9. Clear

Shades of Grey: Clear

* * *

_Tuesday, 31 March. 18:23:13._

"One more, please?"

Aidan's upturned, pleading face is nearly impossible to resist. Tilt the head toward Eric, in what would be an older brother exchange of glances between anyone else. (There are a wealth of gestures they manage without eye contact, by virtue of other body language.) Eric's expression holds an indulgent smile, one easily matched.

"One more, and then we should go home."

"Yeah!" It should not be possible to glomp two brothers at once when one arm is full of laser gun, but somehow Aidan manages it.

Eric grins. "Let's go add to our winning streak."

Laser tag isn't the easiest game to play without a chance to calibrate the aim of light-based ammunition, but the ability to sense what's around blind corners more than makes up for it. He wouldn't be using his edge if only he and Eric were playing, but the whole point of today is for Aidan to have fun. With Eric as informed point man and no chance of surprise ambush, Aidan is free to point and shoot however he likes at their vict—opponents, and celebrate victory at the end.

Their triumphant return is met with a supper of Aidan's favorite foods, as Mother wisely arranged for Aidan's cake to be consumed _before_ he could run off the ensuing sugar rush rather than after. (Aidan's friend Galen, who had come over for the lunch, presents, and cake part of the day, had been loosed back on his parents directly after sugar consumption, which had surely been much appreciated.)

Aidan gives a glowing report of the afternoon, and even grandmother's disapproval of war games can't prevent her from smiling at his good cheer. The rest of the evening is spent breaking in Aidan's new action figures until Aidan starts to yawn.

Eric chuckles, and edge captures his hand moving to ruffle Aidan's hair. "Time for bed, gremlin."

"I'm not—" Aidan's protest is cut off by another yawn. "—tired."

Waggle the figure held in hand in a parody of a wave goodbye. "We'll all still be here in the morning."

"Yeah, but..."

"No buts, Aidan."

Aidan pouts, and dawdles through cleaning up and preparing for bed, but eventually they get him tucked away for the night. In the hall outside Aidan's room, Eric turns in a soft rustle of jeans and t-shirt. "Gym, or a game? Unless you picked up another case already..."

There is a Kid heist tonight, but the target belongs to the Suzuki business group and consequently the news isn't being allowed anywhere on-site. He'll call Murakami-keiji in the morning to get the details of Kid's escape—he doesn't doubt the escape will be successful, whether or not the thief gets away with his target. Even if Kudou Shin'ichi shows up again.

Saguru smiles. "The fraud consultation I picked up after Madam Eastley's cousin was arrested is already resolved as well. I think laser tag was enough for one day, so let's go with chess. We can put the rugger match on—that was this afternoon, wasn't it?"

Eric ruffles Saguru's hair with an unspoken, grateful sort of glee, proving him right. Eric's devotion to watching rugby nearly equals his enthusiasm for playing the sport himself, but he tries to not bore Saguru with having only the highlight commentary to listen to. Multitasking makes for a good compromise, and also gives Eric something to blame when he loses and a reason to gloat when he wins. It's fine either way; they're not playing to keep score.

Mother hasn't moved from where they left her in the sitting room during Aidan's rounds of saying goodnight, her fingers clicking industriously on a computer keyboard. Edge catches the brilliant smile she always gives every times she sees them, no matter how short or long or a time its been, and she pauses her work to stand and fold them both into a hug.

"Bless you for handling Aidan tonight."

Lean in and absorb the warmth, memorising afresh the scent of lavender she's been favouring lately.

"Of course, Mother."

Eric adds, with an audible grin, "We accept cash, cheque, or credit card. Or putting the game on."

Mother's laugh fills the room. "Go on, then. I'm about caught up on the accounts anyway."

The telly is on the opposite side of the sitting room, mounted above the fireplace with a sofa and two overstuffed chairs arranged around a cherry wood coffee table. In ten years, the furniture has never been rearranged, only occasionally replaced, and edge is unnecessary to find the back of the sofa and skirt the edges to sit. The sofa dips slightly with Eric's added weight, and beneath the sudden noise of the telly is the click of the chessboard and box of pieces being set on the coffee table. Another click as the box of pieces open and the sofa cushions shift again to Eric leaning back.

"Go on, then. Unless you're too tired from earlier..."

He can't help but grin at the challenge-offer. "I'm never too tired for this."

Edge _holds_ the pieces in a jumble of false white, all identical except for a dot of purportedly clear nail polish on the top of the ones memory says are made of equally clear glass, while the unmarked ones are frosted. With a bit of extra concentration, the hold is strong enough to move them from box to board in a rush of mid-air organization that clicks each into their place with the appearance of sixteen invisible hands moving in coordination.

Eric chuckles from the blackness outside of the carefully contained limits ofedge at this strength. The pressure wouldn't precisely hurt him, but being pushed even lightly can hardly be called pleasant. "It's a good thing I know you won't cheat."

Sniff disdain at the very idea. "I hardly need to cheat to beat you."

"We'll see about that." The clear glass is on Eric's side of the board, and he starts the game with King's knight to f3.

Counter with King's knight to f6, though this time moved by hand rather than by edge. "With pleasure."

* * *

_22:46:37._

The rugby match is over and the chessboard well-developed into endgame before conversation creeps back into the pauses between moves and concentration. Eric moves his remaining knight to threaten Saguru's bishop. "This reminds me, did you decide on a club? I know you'd been thinking about joining the chess one, or track and field..."

"Mmm, I decided against it. Both of them travel for matches, and I need more freedom in my schedule to manage cases. Unless there's suddenly a detective club when the school year starts, I'd been planning on drama club." Move the bishop, but only to block effective movement of Eric's queen.

"Oho, my brother, the thespian. Couldn't you make a detective club yourself, though, if you wanted?"

"If I wanted, yes, but if I make it myself I'll likely be the head, and I've no desire to have to coordinate club meetings or activities on top of my own."

"You're already busy enough," Eric agrees, advancing a pawn to one space away from Saguru's back row. "It's a shock you have time to sleep."

The tone is gentle, teasing, and Eric doesn't suggest giving up on a club altogether. After-school activities are the best chance to make connections outside of class 2-B, and it's important to have a recreational pursuit. Detective work isn't a hobby to pursue at leisure. It's a calling he can't walk away from even if he wanted to.

Thankfully, at this point, he doesn't.

"So," Eric continues cheerfully, and Saguru realizes he has been too distracted by his thoughts to respond. "Are you hoping for a role, or to be crew?"

"It depends on the play and the needs of the club, really. I wouldn't exactly fit the look of a historical piece." Another set of moves, and Saguru sacrifices a rook to capture Eric's knight and put his king in check.

"Well, if you don't dye your hair, not unless there's a Dutch trader, a supernatural creature in human guise, or it's set after Perry's Black Ships."

"I like my hair as it is, thank you." People looking at his hair aren't looking at his eyes, and it lets him feel he's brought something of England with him. "The second might be interesting. I make a good villain or Chaotic Neutral being, don't you think?"

Pitch an evil laugh, honed by years of young and foolish mischief, and more recent months of trading off with Eric for the role of villain to be defeated by Aidan's action figures. It provides fitting counterpoint to putting Eric's king in checkmate.

"Of course." Eric lightly drums his fingers on the table, sighs, and tips his king over with a faint _clack._ "The good guys lose today."

Grin without thinking, amused and triumphant. "I promise to be a benevolent Evil Dictator."

"Oh, _do_ you?" Edge catches Eric shifting closer just before getting caught in a (mostly) gentle headlock and noogie, the scents of sweat and cologne sharpening with the movement. "Do you provide high tea before starting the floggings until morale improves?"

Fight back, but not too hard, mindful of the game beside their impromptu wrestle, though it's hard to protest, grapple, and laugh simultaneously. "High tea—and a massage—do you take me for—a man of no class?"

"None at all, you blighter!"

The fight rather devolves from there, while mother laughs at them in the background, until Saguru finally surrenders by going limp. "All right! No dictatorships today, and when I do conquer the world you can be my right-hand minion."

Eric sniffs, only partially loosening his superior hold. "Minion? I _might_ settle for Grand Vizier."

"Wrong form of government, but why not? It'll still just be a title."

"Until I depose you."

"You can try."

Eric ruffles his hair. "We'll see. First you have to conquer the criminal underworld, right?"

"Today the underworld, tomorrow the surface."

"Don't let Aidan hear you say that, or we'll have Mole Man against the Fantastic Four next time."

Smile, content. "I can live with that."

* * *

AN: Despite the long hiatus, this story is not abandoned. Please continue to read and review and updates will continue as often as real life allows.

Ocianne

9/12


	10. Green

Shades of Grey X: Green

* * *

_Wednesday, 1 April. 06:03:24._

The downside of vacations is they never last long enough. The morning would be the same routine of preparing for the day and eating breakfast together as a family, except for that when Aidan and Eric typically leave for school, instead they join Mother and Grandmother in playing escort to the airport. By staying through the end of Aidan's birthday, there's no chance to attend the opening ceremonies at Ekoda High, but some things are worth it.

The drive passes too quickly and the farewells are too short. Aidan hugs almost painfully tight, but the sentiment is returned. Match the hug as tightly as nerves and skin can stand. Eric and Mother and Grandmother are gentler, and Grandmother adds an affectionate hair-ruffle.

"Don't get into trouble over there, and stay safe."

"I'll do my utmost," is the only possible promise. Kid may be the primary target, but there's always the chance of other cases.

Time ticks inexorably on, and the plane must be boarded before it leaves without him. The last goodbyes help lighten the walk to the assigned seat and through takeoff. Knowing that Eric snuck a small stockpile of handkerchiefs in a sealed plastic bag into the luggage also helps. Even the smell of home won't be the same as being there, but the world turns on.

It's impossible to sleep through the start of the flight—it's barely been a few hours since waking. Instead, read Japanese history and wish for _The Tale of Genji_ to take its stead. Even if the main character is more despicable than not, at least it's more entertaining and there's a psychological side to the presentation. Textbooks are perhaps the worst possible way to present information without the life siphoned out.

When the textbook becomes unbearable, another audiobook and writing a reply riddle for Kuroba fill the time off and on for the rest of the flight's first half. Fortunately, no fellow passengers are seated nearby, as chatting with a stranger for no reason besides proximity is approximately as palatable as three-day-old natto. Getting through a 36-hour day without collapsing is quite enough of a challenge on its own.

Amusements finally exhausted and well aware of the relative time, a pill and attempting to nap cover the last few hours before the plane descends. Thanks to time zones, the plane lands with just enough leeway to rush through customs and home to change. Baaya pulls the car up in front of school just as the first period bell begins to ring on _2 April, 7:59:4_3. (The administration is forgiven for not keeping their clocks quite so accurate as they could be.)

Slide the classroom door open before the last chime fades away, and a pulse catches most of the class turning to look at the sound.

"Hakuba-kun! You're back!" Aoko's delighted smile is impossible to not return in kind, though memory reminds at the last second to not be so vulgar as to show any teeth in the process.

"Safe and sound. Good morning, Aoko-kun, everyone. My apologies for disrupting." Slip between the desks with care to the last empty seat, ignoring Kuroba for the moment. They don't know each other well enough to merit a specific greeting even if he wished to. Given what happened the last time, though, it's probably for the best that the first of April passed on a plane rather than in Kuroba's proximity.

With any luck, the story of what occurred will come up during lunch.

* * *

_Wednesday, 2 April. 12:08:54._

The story is beyond anything imagination could provide. Somehow, defying all sense, Kuroba managed to get his hands on a _Riddler_ costume—though their classmates didn't catch the reference. They describe it as a dark green bowler hat, a cane with a funny handle, and a dark green eyemask. The identification is tentative until Keiko mentions that about a dozen people had bright orange hair by the end of the day as she pulls up what's supposed to be a picture on her phone.

"Here it is, see?"

Don't wince. "The cane... the handle was a bit like a question mark, was it not?"

Aoko and the others lean towards the screen through a gently held _pulse._ "You know, I think you're right... But why?"

Kuroba not only likes American holidays, he apparently is either a fan of comic books or Jim Carrey. Or both.

Given the blending of canons, the safest bet is probably both.

"An American cartoon villain called the Riddler has that as part of his trademark costume. He enjoys playing tricks on people and making games and... setting riddles for people to solve." The answer to Kuroba's riddle is still hidden between pages on the Warring States era. Don't think about it; Kuroba's not even present for lunch this time, likely off doing some last minute prep with his clubmates for the club fair later. "The Riddler also has orange hair, which would explain the choice of dye for the day."

"Ohhh," comes the chorus of understanding.

"Kaito _would_ enjoy being the villain," Aoko states with a faint pout. "Just like he likes Kid."

Keiko protests, "Hey! Kid isn't a villain, he's misunderstood."

Ah, the advantages of a charming personality. Remind, mildly: "He still breaks the law."

"Right! And that makes him a bad guy, right, Hakuba-kun?"

...Well. "The law does make some exception for motive and mitigating circumstances, Aoko-kun, though I doubt Kid-kun would fall in that category."

But maybe he does. That driving factor is never something to not want to know.

How can Kid expect a _deduction_ regarding something so privately internal no one can know the truth with certainty except the person who acted?

The question remains, haunting, even through the rest of classes and the whirlwind of Club Fair. It doesn't rest until going to the Police Headquarters and completing the mind-numbing red tape required to officially join the Task Force drowns out all other concerns.

* * *

_16:19:23._

"Okay, that's the last of paperwork for the long-term visitor's badge. Here's your non-disclosure agreement, and the paperwork for the background check to be a probationary member of the Kaitou Kid task force." Papers rustle as they settle on the desk.

Calm. Be less than calm, and any modicum of respect already achieved will vanish in an instant. "I just filled out the paperwork for a background check as part of the the visitor's badge."

"I know." Murakami-keiji's voice, a pleasant tenor, is sympathetic. "The background check for the task force goes through an additional department, and no, none of them talk to each other."

"Of course they don't." Pinch the nose bridge against a migraine and hope it works.

"Bureaucracy at it's finest," Murakami-keiji agrees with false cheer. "But I swear, this is the last of it except for fingerprinting and taking the photo for the badge."

"Thank God," slips out in English without thought. Switch to Japanese to add, "At this rate, all that would disbar me from being an officer is sitting the exam."

"You still have two years of high school to go, Hakuba-kun."

Pop joints and stretch muscles that have been hunched over a desk filling out forms in triplicate for far too long already. "I did say 'At this rate', did I not?"

Murakami-keiji chuckles. "I'm sure we'll manage to have you released before dinner."

"I certainly hope so. I promised I would be home for it." Father and Grandfather promised, too—the first chance for a meal together since returning, to catch each other up on the other side of the world.

"Well, the sooner you finish, the sooner we can get you home."

"Thank you. I'm sure you have other concerns than guiding me through this paperwork nightmare, anyway."

Edge catches Murakami-keiji's congenial shrug. "I like your style. Don't mention I said this, but maybe some new perspective will give us an edge on Kid. You've certainly gotten close, and even Kudou-kun messed up his plans a little while ago at the Clocktower."

Interest slows the movement of pen across paper. "Is Kudou-kun at headquarters today? I'd hoped to run across him sometime..." There are too few teenage private detectives in the world to pass up the chance to commiserate. Besides, Kudou is supposedly a _Holmes fan_, to boot.

"No, sorry... He hasn't been around all week, that I've heard, which might be a new record. I'd have to check with Yumi-san in traffic, she's the bookie—crap. Don't tell anyone I said _that_, either, okay?"

Ignore the disappointed pang and smile, teeth hidden politely but with definite amusement. "My lips are sealed." Pause, and take a deep breath. Now _is_ the best time to ask, and of all the officers on the task force, Murakami-keiji is perhaps the most sympathetic to his position already. "Though there is something you could do for me, as a favor in return."

"Yeah?" Murakami-keiji's voice is understandably tinged with wariness. "What is it?"

Focus on the paper, let the pen continue to scribble more redundant information as distraction. "I... if I could have your promise of not repeating this, either?" To gain more trust, offer trust in return, and perhaps a hook for curiosity.

"Of course!" Murakami-keiji shifts, nearly leaning over the desk, and paranoid habit drops edge completely to be there's no pressure-resistance for him to encounter.

Hold the pen steady, eyes carefully lowered in the direction of the paper, and speak quietly to be sure Murakami-keiji _is_ the only one who hears despite the empty surrounding desks. "I have... I'm colorblind. Utterly. I was hoping I might be able to use your eyes on occasion, should color become a relevant concern."

"No kidding? I would never have figured you for something like that." The shift of fabric and hint of air indicates that Murakami-keiji has likely leaned forward further in curiosity. Don't react. "No color at all? How's that possible?"

"Accidents and bad luck conspire." The tone is intentionally flat, and Murakami-keiji is bright enough to take a hint.

"Right. Well, your secret is safe with me, I promise."

Smile again, with the sharp certainty that puts people on edge. "As you're the only one on the force I've told, I'll certainly be able to tell if you do better with this than Yumi-keiji's side work."

Murakami-keiji chuckles, if a bit nervously. "I will, don't worry."

"I trust your discretion for truly important matters." There's nothing left to say, really, so turn back to the paperwork and carefully bring edge back to bear, ready to drop should Murakami-keiji show any signs of awareness. There truly isn't that much left, and soon all that remains is a last stamp from his signature seal. (The seal had been a welcome gift from grandfather, white marble with a line carving on all four sides of the horse rampant that has been the symbol of the family line for decades. It's easy to appreciate the seamless integration of aesthetic form and practical function.)

Finish the stamp, and lean back in the chair with a sigh. "That's the last, I hope."

Papers rustle again as Murakami-keiji hums under his breath and checks that everything is properly complete. "Yep! You're free to go. See you on the nineteenth, if you'll be there."

Making it on the _Queen Selizabeth _cruise ship for another rematch is very tempting. However... "Are the rumors about Suzuki Sonoko true?"

Murakami-keiji laughs. "Boy crazy and effusive? As far as I can tell, yes, but she's so obsessed with Kid right now she probably wouldn't care if the guests were all rich and handsome college students instead of corporation CEOs."

Excellent. "I'll be there, if a bit more low profile than usual." He could potentially have an invitation through grandfather—grandfather most likely has already received a request of attendance—but it's far more satisfying to have access via his own position through the task force.

"Not interested in catching her attention?" There's a definite grin in Murakami-keiji's voice.

"I have no desire to be anyone's obsession."

"Smart of you. Well, take care until then, and do your best with the new school term."

A smile spreads automatically at the well-wishing. "Thank you; I'm looking forward to it."

Despite everything unresolved with Kuroba, it's the complete truth.

* * *

Please continue to read and review!

Ocianne

1/13


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